


Things You Can Change

by SummerFrost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Coming Out, Frottage, Homophobic Coach, Kent "Glass Closet" Parson, M/M, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life, for Kent Parson, is about patterns: the ways they build (violently, with Jack Zimmermann), break (tenderly, with Eric Bittle), and glue back together (with all the same pieces, rearranged).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if you're gonna be the death of me

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my real-life brot3 (alpha_exodus and calypso-mary) and the lovely shipped-goldstandard for their betas and cheerleading throughout this process! 
> 
> Chapter titles from Collar Full by Panic! at the Disco.

There were things you couldn’t change about yourself, and there were things you could. I spent a lot of time wondering if the part of me that fucked everything up was something I could’ve fixed.

It’s a tale as old as time: first gay boy (me) falls in love with second gay boy, who doesn’t love him back but does fuck him a lot. Everything is great (except for all the anxiety), until the second gay boy tries to kill himself right before their biggest dream is supposed to come true. You can relate.

We’re skipping the hot teenage sex part of the story (yeah, I’m disappointed too) and getting to the royally fucked part.

We’re starting with June 26th, 2009. I’m sorry.

 

The Las Vegas Aces had first pick in the draft. My hand was on Jack’s thigh. I could feel him trembling under my palm and I wondered if he was going to vibrate apart and just float up into space.

“Kent Parson,” said the man in the suit with the microphone. _No,_ I corrected him, _you mean Zimmermann. You want fucking Jack Zimmermann._ But they were all staring at me and clapping and Mom was crying a little bit and I guess they wanted me. I was faster than Jack; maybe that’s why. My hand was on a pant leg with nothing underneath.

I’d gone first in the NHL draft. Las Vegas basically seemed like fucking Nirvana. Zimms would hate Vegas. Honestly it was probably for the best that they took me. He’d like it up north somewhere closer to his parents, anyway, and it was just a number, just one number different, and I could feel my heart racing with pride because I _deserved_ this and Zimms would be happy for me; he had to be. My hand was on a soft velvet chair, still warm from the person who’d been sitting there.

When I’d signed everything and they drafted Jack up north he still wasn’t back. He was probably just hiding somewhere, working through it. I’d been his—whatever I was—long enough to know that sometimes Jack just needed to be alone. I tried not to take shit like this personally. He was happy for me; he had to be. Or he would be, when he got past his own disappointment. I knew how things ate away at him sometimes. We’d talk about it later and I’d cheer him up like I always did…like only I could.

People really wanted to know where Zimms was. I guess it was bad form to not be around for your own draft. I said I’d go look for him. _Thatta boy, Parse. Him and Zimms are inseparable you know. Never seen a team like those boys. It’s a shame they’re being split up._

I saw the pills first. Those stupid fucking little blue pills that some doctor said he needed. Those pills that I handed him at night when he woke up covered in sweat and crying and begging, _“Kenny please, I can’t do it Kenny,”_ and I’d hand him a pill because you took medicine when you felt bad and _Sure, Zimms, I guess you could take one more if it helps you feel better._ I didn’t know I didn’t know oh God forgive me I didn’t know I couldn’t.

 

_“And that’s a legal hip check, kids,” said Coach, having demonstrated the technique on the assistant coach._

_“But Coach,” squeaked fourteen year old Kent Parson, “what do you do if someone checks_ you? _” Kent is the smallest kid on the ice. He always has been and always will be. He’s not gonna hit anyone. He’ll spend his whole life being the one against the boards._

_“You skate through it, Parson. Just keep skating right through.”_

 

“Zimms?” I called. There were ten pills on the floor. Ten. How many were in the bottle last night? _How many were in the bottle, Kent, you fucking idiot?_ “Jack?” There were too many pills in the bottle last night, oh God, how many pills could you take? Oh good, Jack was sitting on that bench right there, just around the corner from the conference room. He’s probably fine, working on his breathing or something, I’ll just- “ _Jack no wake up Jack please Jack Jack Jack oh God!”_ Then I cried for approximately thirteen seconds.

I was fifteen the first time someone slammed me up against the boards hard enough to give me a concussion. It’s funny; everything was blurry and sparkled a bit at the edges, like if I could turn my head fast enough there’d be a unicorn or some shit waiting for me. I kept skating because that was what you _did_ and if you hit the ice you’d lost.

So I didn’t keep crying, or hold him, or do any of the other things I wanted to do. I picked up the pill bottle because the hospital would want to know what was in it and I called 911 while I jogged back into the conference room to tell Bad Bob his son might be dying.

They don’t let you ride in the ambulance even if the family says you can come.

I held Alicia Zimmermann’s hand in the ER waiting room while Jack’s dad talked to the doctors and the people around me kept telling me that it was okay to cry, like it was insulting that I wasn’t. I tried to tell them that I was still skating and no one could understand what I meant.

You read sometimes about people who keep calling a dead person’s phone to hear them on the voicemail. I thought that was a pretty good idea so I did it. Jack’s phone rang in Bad Bob’s pocket and he stared at me in disbelief. I hung up before it finished ringing. Jack wasn’t dead.

“Sorry,” I told Alicia Zimmermann plainly, “this is my fault.”

She didn’t seem to understand me. “Kent, sweetheart, what could possibly make you think that?”

“Lots of things,” I shrugged. I was just going over the facts. I wasn’t good enough. I shouldn’t have let him keep taking pills. I should have known that was wrong. I should have been enough to make him feel better without it should have been stronger than a panic attack _why wasn’t I enough for you Jack?_ I should have gone second in the draft and when I went first I should have followed him right away not just sat in that room smiling and being happy for myself I should have followed him then I would have stopped him that’s what someone who was good enough would have done.

“This isn’t your fault,” Alicia Zimmermann tried to comfort me, pulling me into a hug. It was, but she didn’t know. I decided that didn’t really matter anyway, though, because this was about moving forward. _Just keep moving._

I could have stayed up more nights with him instead of going back to sleep. Maybe that would have made him feel better. _Keep moving._ I could have asked the team doctor how many anxiety pills you were allowed to take. Maybe they would have helped him. _Keep moving._ I could have been better and made him love me enough that he was happy for me when they called my name. Maybe he would have stayed in the room. _Keep. Moving._

I really wanted a drink. I wondered if anyone would buy me a drink. Probably not, considering the recent drug abuse of my best friend. “Can I have a beer?” I asked Alicia Zimmermann.

“No, Kenny,” she sighed.

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

 

Concussions can make you really angry. They fuck up your brain and you become a totally different person sometimes. When I skated off the ice after my concussion all the sparkles had gone away and I’d gotten an assist with Zimms and my head felt like it was going to collapse on itself at any second. I remember being angrier than I’d ever been, just about everything, and that was how they knew something was wrong with me.

 

“I hate you,” I whispered to an unconscious Jack Zimmermann. “Why did you do this? How could you leave me, after everything I did?” Suddenly I was so furious and lost and small. “God, I fucking hate you! How could you, Jack, how could you?” I could feel the tendons in my fingers pulling themselves apart, my hands were balled so tightly into fists.

_How could you do this after everything I did for you? I stayed with you through all of it and we worked so fucking hard for this Zimms and you are everything to me but it wasn’t about that for you, right? Because you wouldn’t have tried to leave me if I was more important and I gave you everything. What would have made me enough? How can I look at the team that almost killed you? How can I look in the mirror when I almost killed you? I hate you I hate you I hate you._

I didn’t mean any of it. Or maybe I meant fucking all of it. I meant whatever part of it would be enough to keep me going, because I could not stop in this room.

 _I could not stay I could not stay I could not stay_ but Jack woke up so I did.

The whole family crowded back in when I called them and I would have slipped out, maybe found someone to buy me a beer (because I deserved a fucking drink, okay?), but Jack was specifically asking if I was there so I crept back in and I said, “Of course I’m here, Zimms, where else would I be?” and there were a lot of other places I could be, actually, but it was okay. One of us had to be okay and that probably shouldn’t fall on the guy in the hospital bed. Even if it was a little bit like jumping after someone into hell.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Jack insisted, his voice weaker than I’d ever heard it. “I just wanted the pain to stop.” And it felt like an accusation, somehow, even though he probably didn’t mean it that way. That couldn’t matter. Nothing could matter.

The adults went to get coffee or food and maybe feel a little less depressed and I stayed in the room feeling like the floor was going to collapse at any moment. I was afraid to blink because if I did I was convinced he’d swallow another bottle while I couldn’t see him. I thought I’d probably have to watch him for all of forever so that nothing could take him away.

“I meant it, a little bit,” he whispered and I’d already known that was true, probably, but fucking hell. I was eighteen and scared and no one understood this was all my fault. “Can you help me, Kenny?”

“Yeah, Zimms,” I lied.

 

~*~ 

 

I know how everyone wants this story to go. You want me to be there for his entire rehab and we hold hands while Jack Zimmermann gets all fixed up nice and pretty. You want the Power of Love to fix eighteen years of Zimmermann anxiety and depression and God knows what else got him into that hospital bed the night of the draft. Believe me, I know, because I wanted it too.

I wasn’t good enough to save Jack Zimmermann and I sure as hell wasn’t good enough to fix him. I still tried, though. I promise. I visited as much as they let me but Zimms was angry and bitter and it took two weeks and a very uncomfortable conversation with a psychologist to figure out that Kenny Parson did nothing but cause more pain for the boy he loved. So I killed Kenny Parson and two days later, Parse the Rising NHL Star flew out to Vegas to shop for condominiums with a very excited mother and baby sister.

It was easier to do than you’d think. We all have different versions of ourselves simmering in our veins, and I pulled another one out. I think Kenny is still down there somewhere, maybe hiding out in my liver. I can feel him whenever someone says “Zimmermann.” I rocket back in time to the fifteen year old kid fucking away his innocence (to Miley Cyrus, of all things), vision trained on a pair of blue eyes, more in love than he should be. Kenny had a very big _everything_ and it all went in one place. Kenny wasn’t enough and I don’t miss him, I think.

But I was—am—proud to be Parse, the youngest captain to ever win the Cup. I’m a fun guy. I’ve always loved parties and clubs are just _better_ parties with drinks that don’t taste like ass and I have real friends and I’m a damn good captain, I really am. I became captain because _Parse is the one I call at two am when I’m scared shitless_ and _Parse organized my whole trip when Sarah was in that car wreck and I couldn’t think straight_ and I became captain because I give my team everything I have. Like I said before, in every iteration of ourselves we have things that stay the same. They’re the things that make us who we are. I don’t know how to give less than everything.

I really wasn’t sure if I was expecting to hear anything from Jack when we won the Cup. We’d been texting and even Skyped once, though, and I let myself think maybe things would be okay either way. I was riding high on some _really_ nice tequila shots at about three AM, still awake by sheer force of will, when my phone buzzed for at least the hundredth time and I decided to finally check it. There were plenty of congratulations and praise from old friends. And it turns out Jack had texted me after all.

 **_Zimms (1:32 am):_  ** _That last goal was a lucky shot_

And that was way worse than not hearing anything, obviously, and I kept swiveling in my bar stool like maybe I’d catch a unicorn behind me. The hot blonde I’d been chatting up asked me if I was okay and I asked her, “Do you think unicorns are real?” and she thought it was some cheesy pickup line because that was what she needed and I thought it’d be nice to be what someone needed. I asked her if she wanted to be in the tabloids and _yeah that’s cool_ so I made sure the paparazzi got some flattering shots on the way out.

 

So after that mess, why did I show up to a Samwell kegster that September? You know, I’m not really sure. It might have something to do with:

 **_Parse (11:34 pm):_ ** _I miss you_

 **_Zimms (6:01 am):_ ** _We’re having a party next week_

Maybe.

I’d never actually been to a college party, considering I’d spent the last three years in the NHL instead. It turns out they’re a pretty weird combination of dancing, hilarious drinking games, and everyone wanting to take selfies with you. That last one might be a Kent Parson-specific event. I didn’t mind, though; I wanted everyone to feel like they mattered. The badass team manager, Lardo, taught me how to play beer pong. I actually thought I was good at it, until she played me head on and _destroyed_ me spectacularly. I didn’t mind that either; an old friend taught me a while ago what happens if you need to be the best at everything.

Their new d-men, Ransom and Holster, were already inseparable, and the nostalgia hit me with a baseball bat. And okay, they were a lot different than me and Zimms, I knew that, and I _wanted_ them to be different. They needed to be. Holster was an economics major and he seemed like he was doing okay. The other half, Ransom, was a bio major and right away I saw how tightly he was wound. I don’t think it had become a real problem yet (I mean, not the brag, but I’m kind of a savant when it comes to identifying anxiety-ridden perfectionist messes) but you don’t understand me very well at all if you don’t think I sat that guy down and gave him a “your mental health is more important than your 4.0” speech. ‘ _Swawesome, Kent Parson just gave me life advice!!_ wasn’t the exact reaction I was going for, but whatever. The dude had my number if he needed it. I prayed he wouldn’t.

When all the attention got a bit much, I was rescued by a guy with a sweet mustache, named Shitty (which was inexplicable even in the world of hockey nicknames). Shitty was this rad feminist who I was pretty sure my baby sister would _love_ and I was thinking that I should really ask him if he could send his junior thesis to her, when Jack finally showed up.

I felt like he hadn’t expected me to actually be here (really, Jack? You’ve known me for like seven years; when have I ever _not_ shown up to a party?), but he seemed okay with me being around at least. That was until some of the newer players found us on the roof and starting asking me about the Stanley Cup.

“And bro—can I call you bro?—,” I nodded, taking off my snapback to smooth my cowlick, “your game-winning goal was _‘swawesome_!”

I smiled at the guy, a little flustered. I really wasn’t here for this. “Um, thanks man, it was really a team play. Without my guys—,”

“You should have lost.” Jack’s voice was fucking scary. I’d been scared _for_ him before, but never of him. I opened up my mouth because I really should say something, right? But he kept saying shit like, “You take them to the seven somehow and score one _fucking_ lucky shot in the last two minutes and you think you deserve all this?”

“Zimms—,”

“You don’t even take it _seriously_! You don’t think we all see the news articles of you out partying all the fucking time? What kind of example does that set for kids who look up to you?”

One time someone’s stick went sideways during an illegal check and cracked my sixteen-year-old nose apart. There was really a stupid amount of blood, I thought, as I watched it drip onto the very white ice, forming little patterns of dots all around me. I wished I could read Braille.

I forgot we were on a roof and I took a step back to get away from him. I probably would have fallen off (Goodbye, hockey career) if Shitty hadn’t grabbed my arm, honestly. If Jack noticed my near-death experience he didn’t care. He was still tearing into me in front of those poor other bastards. “You don’t deserve any of this. You were supposed to be _second_ . I was — I’m _better_ than you.”

Someone whispered, “Jack…” like they were watching him die. _I’ve been there, buddy, and don’t worry; it goes a lot quieter than this._

I wanted to tell him that my example was teaching kids to do things that made them happy, even if that wasn’t on the ice. My example was going to high school teams and teaching them about depression and what to do if you or a friend is scared or sad. I wanted to tell him that I was doing _the best I could_ without him and that _he_ was the one who kept trying to leave. I wanted to say anything, to use any words that would give me an excuse to be on this roof, still looking at his face, because when I closed my eyes I still saw ten pills and an ambulance and ‘ _Can you help me, Kenny?_ ’

The guy who checked me froze when he saw all the blood. It hadn’t even started to hurt yet, which was really fucking surreal, and I shoved past him to take the puck back and thought maybe we’d even still score off this play. I painted little pictures with blood over the ice as I skated and the whistle blew because _fucking hell Parson is bleeding why didn’t he stop?_ And I was confused when Coach was angry at me because I’d done exactly what I was supposed to do.

I pursed my lips so tightly I thought they’d bruise and clambered through the hallway window, losing my hat on the way. It was our old juniors’ team colors and I thought about turning around for it, but it felt like asking too much to be allowed to do that.

 

~*~

 

When I got home to Vegas early the next morning, I bought an Ace’s snapback and stood outside the animal shelter until someone came to open it up. She was a tall girl with neon purple hair. With absolutely no introduction, I told her, “I want the meanest motherfucker you have.”

“Um. You’re Kent Parson.”

“Yep, yes I am, yeah.”

“Have you ever owned a cat before?”

“Nope, like zero percent.”

“And you want, uh…”

“Literally the worst cat. Like, just, even _you_ hate this cat, okay? I want that cat, and I want to fucking _ruin_ this cat with how much I love it.”

“…Sir, are you okay?” She’d made the decision to actually let me in the building at least, and was turning lights on. She had a hand in the pocket with her cell phone in it, probably because she was worried she’d have to call the cops on me or something.

“Not at all,” I admitted, “but I’ll take really good fucking care of the cat.”  and we locked eyes. Hers were blue and I wondered if she used to be blonde and why she didn’t want to be anymore.

Apparently she decided I seemed capable of pet ownership. “…Follow me.” I went with her to the back of the shelter, where the most incredible creature I had ever laid eyes on (yes, including Jack Zimmermann) was staring innocently at us. She was a Persian, with incredible pure-white fur and crystal blue eyes. This cat was like that cat from the Fancy Feast commercials, except _better_ than that cat.

“No, you don’t understand. I want like, the least lovable cat you have, not fucking cat royalty. Like this cat is a goddess and I want a peasant, okay?”

The girl with neon purple hair turned to look at me, and her eyes were haunted. Her eyes screamed _I have seen some shit._ “This cat has been returned to our shelter five times,” she told me, her voice weary and defeated, “No one can keep her. She’s a Literal Goblin.” I swear, I _heard_ the capitalization.

I looked back and forth between the girl and the cat. I stuck my fingers through the cage and wiggled them at Cat Goddess. She hissed at me and raked her claws against my hand; I winced and pulled away. “She’s fucking perfect.”

I named her Kit Purrson as a pun off my own name. Like Katy Perry did, except my cat is better than hers in every conceivable way. I made Kit an Instagram and a Tumblr blog before we even left the animal shelter. Then I took her to the pet store and bought her cat trees, beds, and approximately two billion toys. I sat on the linoleum floor, ignoring her constant yowling, while I googled what the best brand of cat food was and I stocked up on that, too. The pet store asked me to leave because the other animals were scared of Kit, which, _Hey little dudes, so am I._

I kept Kit in the carrier while I unpacked her stuff and decorated the condo with it, because I wasn’t convinced she couldn’t murder me if she wanted to and it’d be a little embarrassing if I had to admit defeat that quickly. As soon as I let her out, she darted under my couch and stayed there for thirteen hours. If I sat on said couch, she impaled my ankles with her hellish little claws, so I curled up on a recliner chair and watched _Real Housewives_ marathons until it was time to go to bed. I didn’t really want her to have the whole condo available to her all night, because I figured she’d either set the place on fire or be really scared and lonely, like I’d abandoned her already.

So I lifted up the couch and corralled her in my bedroom. She hid under the bed, obviously. “Hey, little gal,” I cooed, peering underneath and dodging the swipe to my face, “You could sleep up on the bed if you want.” Kit Purrson growled at me like the fucking hobgoblin she was and took another pass at my nose. We had a stare-down that lasted three minutes. After that, I sighed and yanked all the blankets and a pillow down from the bed. “I’m gonna fucking regret this,” I muttered to the cat, and curled up on the floor next to her hiding spot, “but if you’re down here so am I.”

I spent three nights on the wooden floor of my condominium because, if you haven’t figured this out already, I hate myself a little. On the fourth morning I owned Kit, I woke up to a goblin purring away on my chest. I called in sick from practice because I was marginally terrified she’d slit my throat if I made her get up.

Kit Purrson hated me for ninety six hours straight, and then she decided she’d tolerate me between the hours of eleven pm and eight am the next morning, when we cuddle in my bed. The rest of the day she’s still a little shit and I love her more than anything.

 

So why did I make Bart the PR guy babysit my cat for two days while I crashed Epikegster 2014? It might have something to do with the fact that I tended to make incredibly poor life decisions to perpetuate a cycle of masochistic interactions with my first and only love. Maybe.

I parked my rented car across the street and stared at myself in the rearview mirror. Snapback forwards or backwards? These were the questions that kept me up at night. I went with backwards and stepped out of the car. Pretty much as soon as I got through the door, I was assaulted by Ransom and Holster, who dragged me over to the beer pong table where Lardo was holding court and tried to introduce me to the new kids.

I thought about chirping Chowder by asking what his favorite team was (spoiler alert: it’s the Sharks), but the two d-men broke out into some stupid fight almost immediately. I checked in with Holster about his economics major woes and made sure Ransom hadn’t self-destructed yet. I tried to explain that “coral reef” wasn’t really a comforting analogy for his life because, like, weren’t all the coral reefs dying and shit? But then Lardo beat me at beer pong _again_ and belched in my face which I was assured was a sign of respect.

That’s when I saw Jack Zimmermann _downstairs_ during a kegster, taking a selfie with a really fucking cute blond kid. Like, I normally went for tall, dark, and emotionally unavailable, but I could not handle that 5’6.5” ray of sunshine, okay? He was staring at Zimms the way I always imagined I must’ve looked. Naturally I interrupted, “I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t seeing it myself. Jack Zimmermann. At a party. _Taking a selfie_.”

The blond guy gasped _Oh my gosh!!_ while Jack turned at the sound of my voice and sighed, “Kent.”

I wondered if I was giving them both heart palpitations (probably for different reasons) as his friend tapped away at his phone and I greeted, “Hey, Zimms. Didja miss me?”

I managed to keep my smirk in place even when he pushed past me and muttered, “Be in my room, Bittle.”

If this guy, apparently called Bittle, noticed how intensely I had just been fled from, he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he looked up from his phone and beamed at me. “It’s so great to meet you, Mr. Parson! Oh, did Jack run off? He’s like that, but I guess you probably know. Sorry you came all this way though. Um, anyway, could we—,”

I saved the poor guy and his adorable southern accent by cutting in, “Let’s take a selfie, Bittle. And you can call me Parse—or Kent.” Part of me was following Jack upstairs, but hey, there was a very attractive dude who _actually_ seemed happy to see me standing right there, and he might even be into me. Depending on how attached he was to the Canadian hiding upstairs.

“Okay, Kent—Parse,” he settled on instead as we grinned at the camera, “you can call me Bitty.”

“Bitty. That a hockey nickname?” I asked, surprised. It’d been a long time since I met someone smaller than me who played. I pictured Bitty getting checked against the boards and shuddered, but his proud _“Sure is”_ drew me back out of my head. “You look like you dance, Bits. Wanna?” I glared at the cup of tub juice in my hand (also, as a side-note, who the fuck makes _green_ alcohol?). This was the kind of wheeling I’d pull at a club, not on some sweet college boy who probably wasn’t even twenty one (and whose friends could put pictures online). But whatever Shitty had thrown into that death cocktail had combined with Jack’s coldness to make me a little reckless.

Bitty looked surprised for about two seconds before eyes _glinted,_ I swear to God, and he shoved his phone into his pocket. “Oh honey, you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he warned, and some of his teammates actually _whooped_ at us when he dragged me away from the wall, cups drained of tub juice and forgotten.

I’m a fucking great dancer, okay? I know exactly how to move my hands along hipbones, how to make someone sweat just enough to get the adrenaline rushing so we can grind all night living off of tequila and recycled air. But Bitty made me see _God_.

Halfway through the second song I remembered how to talk. “Hey Bits, where’re you from?”

“Georgia,” he drawled, curling back up after having dropped to the ground. I shivered. He turned to face me, his hands tracing over my belt, and accused, “Why do you keep calling me Bits?”

“I like ‘Bits.’ It’s tiny, like you,” I teased, leaning in to press more of myself against him.

“Mr. Parson,” he gasped, pushing me back with springy fingers against my chest, “it is _very_ rude to chirp your host like that.” Our hips were still locked together and I bit my lip when he ground against me again, feeling blood rush down into my jeans. I’m sure my brain didn’t need it.

I smirked, “Didn’t know ya ran the place, Bits.”

“That’s because you haven’t had my pies.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.

“Is, uh, that a euphemism?”

“Maybe, but I also bake actual pies. There’s a vlog.”

I groaned, “God, are you fucking _real_?”

He blushed at that, but quipped back, “Far as I know. Though Johnson might have somethin’ to say about that.”

“Wait, your old goalie? What’s he— _hell_ , did you take dance lessons?”

“Figure skating, if that counts,” he answered, spinning back around to rub his ass against me again.

I tilted my head against his neck to hear him better. “That’s fucking awesome. That how you found hockey?” I could picture him, actually, skating around the ice in those tight pants…

He was humming along to the music, answering me between the lyrics. “Yep, that and being a right mess at football like Coach—my dad—wanted me to play.”

I pondered for a moment. “Maybe you could teach me how to do a spin or something. Bet I could make a play out of it.”

“You sound like Rans and Holster,” he laughed.

“I mean it—hey, you like cats, Bits?”

“Erm, yes?”

“My cat is cooler than me.”

He chirped, “That doesn’t seem very hard to do.”

“Okay I mean yeah, but like, _way_ cooler. She’s like this fucking princess and she’s so smart—” I rambled about Kit for a while, got chirped mercilessly for her name, showed off her Instagram. We danced lazily, my cheek pressed against his temple as I flipped through the pictures for him, his hips flicking slowly with the rhythm.

“Bitty- I’m so sorry- Nursey and Dex are fighting again and I’m worried about them…” the freshman goalie, Chowder, wrung his hands awkwardly. He looked at me with these big apologetic doe eyes; I smiled at him reassuringly.

My dance partner sighed, “Bless their hearts. One second, hun.” He snatched my phone and fished his out of a pocket for me.

I put in my cell number and watched him tap away at my phone. “Taking an awfully long time to put in a phone number, Bits,” I chirped.

“You follow me on Twitter now, too,” he winked, and vanished in the crowd of significantly taller men. A little flabbergasted by the whole situation, I looked down at my phone.

 **_Zimms (1:23 am):_ ** _Why are you here?_

Oh shit, Jack. I actually was here for a reason besides drowning my sorrows in dirty dancing blond boys. The Aces were open to recruiting Zimms and I was determined to convince him to sign, even though no, literally no one asked me to do this and Bart would probably have been very upset if he knew why he was being terrorized by Kit Purrson right now (he sent me snapchats; they weren’t good). I figured Jack’d be up in his room still, so I snuck up the stairs which were blocked off with caution tape. The only room with a light on was at the end of the hall.

I knocked and called, “Zimms?” and felt an instant nausea when he didn’t answer. I pushed open the door, thankful it was unlocked. He was stretched out on his bed with headphones on, watching something on his laptop. I waved from the door to catch his attention, pulling it shut behind me.

“Kent, you’re still here? You didn’t answer my text, so I thought…” Jack looked up at me, closing the laptop quickly.

“Nah, just having fun downstairs. Danced with Bitty. He actually play hockey? Kid looks like—what’d I say?” I was currently a victim of the patented Zimmermann glare.

Defensive, he scowled, “Don’t toy with Bittle, Kent.”

“What? I’m not—you know what, whatever. What’re you up to, besides hiding from me?”

He sighed again. “Parse, I wasn’t hiding. I just—” he hesitated, and said instead, “It’s a history documentary. World War Two.”

“Sweet. Lemme see?” I sat on the edge of the bed. Jack appraised me for a bit, before sliding over so that I could join him in front of the laptop screen. For a second I was a teenager, curled up under the covers with the boy I loved, waiting for it to be far enough past curfew to start ripping clothes off. Then the world careened back against me and I was twenty four, staring at a half-stranger, feeling the bed vibrate from the bass pumping downstairs. It still felt pretty fucking good to kiss him.

At first I felt him stiffen against me, thought maybe he’d push me away, but then his hand curled in my hair (RIP hat) and the laptop slammed shut for the second time. Zimms was on top of me, his breath hot on my neck, muscles tight under my hands. He’d changed colognes but he kissed the same, with pushy lips and a tender tongue, like he wanted to give you more than he knew how to. I could live here forever, eyes closed, re-learning what Jack Zimmermann smelled like. It was apples and cinnamon and something muskier. There were hands at my belt and his lips moved to my throat. I laughed because I was so _fucking happy_ and I told him, “The Aces are going to offer you a contract.”

That was wrong, the wrong thing to do, and I knew right away but I pretended I didn’t. “Wh-what?” he asked me, his hands frozen near my hips.

“You could—we could be together again, Zimms. Like we’re _meant_ to be,” I tried to meet his gaze but he couldn’t look at me. “Unless—did you sign somewhere else? The Falcs?”

“No. Look, Parse—I just don’t know where I want to go yet.”

I pushed him. “…You have no clue?”

“I mean…it could be Montreal. It could be L.A., okay? I don’t know.”

No, this was wrong. We finally had our chance. In 2009 they were going to rip us apart but we could actually play _together_ again. Why didn’t he want that? I asked him, “…what about Las Vegas?” afraid to hear his answer, brushing fingers against his cheek.

His jaw clenched. “I…I don’t _know_ , okay?” I kissed him again because I didn’t know what else to fucking do, alright? Maybe all we could do right was kiss and fuck and there were worse things to have as your singular talents. “Pars—,” he broke away, or started to, and changed his mind, burying himself in my lips again. My hair was ruined in his hands and I wondered why he tasted like beer and if he should really be drinking again. While I was thinking that, he pulled away for real and whispered, “Kenny, I can’t do this.”

 _Kenny please, I can’t do it Kenny._ Sixteen year old Jack was digging around in my brain and he wasn’t the person here in front of me but part of all this was the same. “Jack, come on,” I begged, touching his arms, his hair, shoulders, all the parts of him that could make him remember what was so _good_ about us. We were brave and happy back then, before it all went to shit and we had a new chance to be all the good things again.

“No, I—uh…” he fumbled, jumping backwards off the bed. I was on skates and I was fast but I was small and you could _always, always_ get the little guy against the boards eventually. I closed my eyes and I could feel the shudder of the wood vibrating in tune with my skin when I reached out and grabbed his shirt. “ _Kenny!_ ”

“Zimms, just fucking _stop thinking_ for once and listen to me,” I pleaded. He didn’t turn around but he didn’t yank his arm away, either. “I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board and they can free up cap space. Then you can be _done_ with this shitty team. You and me—,” and that was wrong again, so wrong, because I felt his entire body turn against me.

He was stiff and angry and indignant when he said, “Get out.”

His arm yanked out of my hand. I begged, “Jack.”

I was scared of him again, for the second time in my life. He shouted at me, “You can’t—you don’t come to my _fucking school_ unannounced—,”

“Because you shut me out—” I scrambled off the bed and grabbed my hat off the ground. My voice sounded weak and desperate, ringing in my own ears.

He continued, “and corner me in my room—,”

“I’m trying to help—,” I pleaded, backing away towards the door. The whole room shuddered around me like I was slammed up against all the walls.

“and expect me to do whatever you want—,”

“ _Fuck_ _—_ Jack!” I yelled, and he finally paused, looking at me with clenched fists. I grasped my hair in my hands, feeling the roots scream in pain. It was deserved. “What do you want me to say?” I scrambled, words leaping out of my mouth. “That I miss you? _I miss you, okay?_ ” We both pretended I wasn’t crying. “…I miss you.” I finished with a little sob, biting down on my knuckles to try and hold it together. Something was ending here, I knew that, and I knew what came after.

He looked up at me coldly. “…You always say that,” he accused, like I used it as some sort of weapon. Like it couldn’t be because it was true. It was always fucking true. I’d been missing him since I met him, I realized, because there was always a part of Jack Zimmermann I couldn’t find.

 

When you’re 5’10” you don’t check anyone against the boards. You don’t use your hips or your shoulder or any other part of your body. You pray you’re faster when you steal the puck away. And when someone hits you, you just keep going the best you can. That’s how life is for people like me. You live in reactions; you live for the moment _after_ your ears are ringing against the glass or your cheek is cold on the ice.

But I realized something, staring at Jack Zimmermann, who was already starting to tremble while he glared at me. I realized that we weren’t in pads and on skates and I wasn’t in pain because of a bloody nose or a concussion. This was just life in words and voices and his words weren’t any bigger than mine. So I hit back.

 

“…huh, well _shit. Okay._ ” I started, tightening my grip on the Aces hat in my hand. “…You know what, Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough? Everyone already _knows_ what you are, but it’s people like me who still _care._ ”

“Shut up,” he whispered.

I felt like maybe I was watching someone else. I could see my snarl, the choking, angry sobs in my throat. “You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless, right? Oh, don’t worry. Just give it a few seasons, Jack. _Trust me._ ”

We fell silent. The music was still blaring downstairs; I’d almost forgotten there were people living happy lives so close by. I almost couldn’t hear him when he said, “…G-get out of my room.”

“Fine, shut me out again,” I scoffed. I didn’t move towards the door.

“And stay—stay away from my team.”

I hadn’t realized how much he cared about this place. Jack never cared about anywhere. Not as much as he cared about the NHL, anyway. I didn’t know him at all and I couldn’t figure out how to re-learn. “Why? Afraid I’ll tell them something?” I taunted, and I thought about the very charming blond downstairs.

“ _Leave, Parse._ ”

I pulled the door open and Bitty was crouched on the other side, holding a key in his hands, “ _I heard everything”_ written all over his perfectly freckled face. Jack cursed in French under his breath. His trembling hand shook the door. There were exactly zero things I could say to make the situation any better for me. I was very, very fucked. So I went for broke. “Hey. Well, call me if you reconsider or whatever. But good luck with the Falconers.” I smoothed back my cowlick (which never worked) and re-donned my hat. I couldn’t look at either of them when I added, “…I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.”

I’d like to say I slinked away to the car instantly, but when you’re Kent fucking Parson at a hockey party, you don’t get that luxury. So I took some selfies and tried to seem happy, slowly edging my way to the door. Then I broke free and slid into the sports car, banging my head against the leather seats. I looked down at my knuckles and expected them to be bruised.

I was sober enough to know I was too drunk to drive anywhere, so I leaned the seat all the way down and told myself not to cry again. After a moment, I took out my phone and found Bittle’s Twitter. He really had made me follow him, which was endearingly forward. He’d posted our selfie, which felt like it was from a very different lifetime. There was an accompanying tweet that said, “He’s so nice!!”

“Bet you don’t think that anymore, buddy,” I muttered, feeling defeated. The phone buzzed and I nearly threw it out the window in my surprise.

 **_Bitty (2:36 am):_ ** _Kent parson dont you dare leave this kesgter_

I stared at the phone for a long time. Before I answered, I re-saved the contact as “Bits” with a peach emoji at the end.

 **_Parse (2:38 am):_ ** _Excuse me?_

 **_Bits (2:28 am):_ ** _A: you are very drunk and cant drive_

 **_Bits (2:28 am):_ ** _B: you cant say those awful things to jack and then leave this haus_

I peered out the car window. Bits was standing on the lawn with his arms crossed, glaring into my soul from across the street. I wondered how long I would have to sit out here in this car before he’d leave.

 **_Bits (2:31 am):_ ** _I know u see me_

I figured if he killed me I kinda deserved it. I stumbled out of the car, cursing Shitty’s tub juice for the billionth time that night, and made it across the street to a small Georgian who looked more cold than angry and was holding a very full Solo cup.

“Get inside, Parse.”

“It’ll be easier to hide my body if you murder me out here,” I joked pathetically.

“Hush your mouth. No one’s getting murdered, except maybe those lacrosse bros if they don’t get out soon,” he tutted, shoving me up the porch steps. We crept upstairs mostly unnoticed.

Jack’s room was dark, like I knew it would be. “Did you check on him?” I asked nervously. _Ten pills and an ambulance and ‘Can you help me, Kenny?’_

“Of course. He’s not doing well but not—not _that_ unwell,” he promised me, and I wondered how much he knew.

“Bits,” I edged as his bedroom door closed behind us, “why did you drag me back here?”

He rubbed his temples and took a swig of tub juice. I couldn’t imagine this was how he wanted to spend his Epikegster. “Because I met two Kent Parsons today. One of them was very sweet and the other said really awful things to—to Jack, and I’d like to know which one you’re fixin’ to end up as.”

“They’re—it’s all—,” I stumbled, not sure how to explain nearly nine years of pain other than, “…I was tired of just skating off after the check, Bits.”

He slumped to the floor, leaning up against the bed, and I followed suit. He murmured, like it was a very precious secret, “I know two versions of Jack, too.” I looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “My freshman year I thought about quittin’ because of Jack,” he admitted, “I’d come home crying because he yelled at me, you know.” Our shoulders were touching. “It was like he was jealous and I still don’t know why he—my very first goal I was so happy—he told me it was a lucky shot and walked away.”

It was the easiest thing in the world, how his cheek leaned against my shoulder. “That might be my fault, Bits,” I admitted, a little bitterly, “You must remind him of me. Just three inches shorter and a helluva lot cuter.”

I saw the blush on his cheeks but he ignored me. His voice was pained when he explained, “The things you said were awful and you shouldn’t’ve done it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand why.” I nodded numbly, and he sat up straight again. My shoulder felt cold now. “You should apologize.”

“I don’t know how,” I admitted weakly, staring at my fingernails. “I don’t know if he even wants that.”

“It’s for you,” Bitty told me softly, “and maybe him.” The volume of the music dropped considerably and there was a hitch in the speakers as the playlist changed. Shitty was trying to filter out some of the people so the kegster could wind down. “I need to go check on the Frogs,” he commented, “You know, make sure they’re alright.” His cup was half-empty and I wondered how helpful he’d be to those boys, but I nodded anyway.

He was looking at me with half-lidded, dark brown eyes so I started counting the freckles on his nose. Something was crackling in the air that had nothing to do with the scratchy speakers downstairs or the sub-par electrical wiring in the walls. He leaned towards me and he smelled mostly like tub juice and a little like bad decisions. I pressed two fingers against his mouth and shivered at how incredible his lips felt even against the wrong part of my body. Before he could panic about any of the billion reasons why someone would reject a perfectly good kiss, I muttered, “Kiss me in the morning…if you still want to.” It was three AM. My entire body ached with how he looked at me. Jack Zimmermann was across the hall.

“Then goodnight, Mr. Parson.” Bits vanished out the door, locking it behind him (which made me momentarily concerned I was being held hostage, but then I remembered Shitty’s experiences with people hurling in his closet), and I stared at the door knob for a while. Then I sprawled across the bed and tried to fall asleep, because I’d used up all my chivalry resisting what would have been a really fucking great make-out session. I missed Kit desperately, but the stuffed bunny I found hiding under one of the pillows (Bits just kept getting more fucking adorable) gave pretty good surrogate snuggles.

 

I was roused from a strange half-sleep when Bitty crept back in the room. Groggily, I muttered, “I’ll move…” and tried to roll off the bed (it seemed like the best escape route at the time).

“Hush, you can stay. But gimme Señor Bun,” he compromised, sliding under the covers and tugging at the rabbit I had crushed to my chest.

“Aww,” I whined quietly, reluctantly letting go of my new cuddle buddy. The room was dark but a streetlight outside offered a faint glow that caught in his eyes. “I was lonely.”

“…this boy,” he muttered to himself. Suddenly my arms were full of Bittle and I made an incredibly unflattering squeaking noise out of surprise. _Kent Parson, modern Casanova._ I fell asleep spooning a very demanding southerner with all my clothes on, including the hat. Across the hall, Jack Zimmermann probably hated me and at least I’d finally earned it.

 

~*~

 

Shitty shouted into the megaphone so loudly I fell off the bed. “Cockadoodle-motherfucking-doo! Rise and shine and get out of my Haus!” I rubbed the elbow I’d landed on and attempted to determine hangover-status. I had a mild headache but nothing particularly awful. Bits was already gone and in new clothes, apparently, because his old ones were in a pile on the floor. I checked my phone and discovered Bart had sent me a snapchat earlier that morning. It was a picture of his arm, covered in bloody cat scratches, with the caption “I hate you, Parson.” I screenshotted it and uploaded it to Kit’s social media. She has more followers than me, which still makes me really fucking proud.

I wasn’t looking forward to facing the Haus for, I don’t know, a billion reasons. I wondered if I could climb out the window, drop down from the roof, and bolt for the car before anyone saw me. But I’d told Bits to kiss me in the morning and I had like, only two other things in my life I still hadn’t fucked up, so I figured it was probably worth hanging on to this. Not that it was likely he’d still want to. He’d wake up and remember that I was a giant asshole and probably be disgusted by the whole thing. But, you know, on the off chance…plus I wasn’t really confident in my parkour abilities.

Despite the megaphone, Shitty had only succeeded in rousing Chowder and some non-hockey bros who had passed out on that fucking gross green couch. I wondered if I could get them to toss it if I donated a new one. He didn’t seem surprised to see me, which definitely didn’t have anything to do with the really inconspicuous sports car still parked outside. Bits was already in the kitchen, humming to Beyoncé while he cooked pancakes.

“I like chocolate chips in mine.”

“I don’t take requests, Mr. Parson,” he scolded without taking his eyes off the frying pan, “not when I’ve got this dang hangover.”

I smirked, “You look like the least hungover person in the fucking building.” It was true; he was neatly dressed and his hair even looked like he’d showered.

“I have many talents.”

I looked around the Haus. It was entirely trashed. “Can I, uh, help with anything? This place is a wreck.”

Bits opened his mouth like he was going to chirp me, but Shitty had overheard my offer and swooped in immediately, a friendly arm around my shoulders. “Kent Parson, you beautiful motherfucker! Come with me and I will show you the light. And by light, I mean the best way to clean up one hundred Solo cups’ worth of spilled tub juice without ruining your shoes.”

Minimum two gallons of tub juice later, I sat down at the Haus kitchen table with a groan. Bits put down a plate with two chocolate chip pancakes in front of me, which I was smart enough to accept without comment. I was in the middle of a great Kit Purrson story (like I told Bits, her life is infinitely more interesting than mine) when Jack walked into the Haus. He’d apparently been on a run that didn’t involve looking at the car parked across the street, because his eyes widened with a very impressive mix of shock and anger when he saw me.

“You’re still _here?_ ” he asked, incredulous. His accent was thicker in the morning which made him more intimidating. Chowder looked confused. Shitty was mildly worried and Bitty quickly pressed his knee against mine under the table. Jack looked between me and him and accused, “Where did you sleep? I walked through the whole Haus—,”

“My floor, Jack,” Bitty cut in, and I figured that was an appropriate modification. “I don’t think social media needs any pictures of Kent Parson with, er, _penises_ drawn on his face from passing out in our Haus.” Shitty stood and started hounding Jack about his night to try and cut the tension. Bitty pushed away half-eaten pancakes and asked, “Chowder, darlin’, can you help me get the den fixed up?” to whisk away the goalie. Over his shoulder, he mouthed _“apologize”_ at me and I dropped my head to the table.

Shitty left loudly, which might have been on purpose or just who he was as a person. I looked up at Jack, who was clutching a plate of plain pancakes at the counter. He used to like them with maple syrup but I figured that probably wasn’t in the diet plan now. “You need to leave. Please.”

“Zimms, let me—,”

“What should I let you do, Kent? Haven’t you done enough?” He sounded tired and a little afraid of me.

I bit my lip. “I’m really fucking sorry, Zimms. I shouldn’t—the things I said—you don’t deserve that. But you hurt me too, you know. All the time.” I felt my throat tighten and my head was pounding harder, now.

He stared at me for ages, maybe expecting me to break, admit I didn’t mean it. But I did mean it, and finally he insisted, “I’ve been trying to let _go_ . You keep _haunting_ me, trying to take me back — I was so unhappy, Kenny. I can’t — I’ve worked so hard — I can’t be _around_ you. Not yet.”

And that was it. That was the thing hiding behind all the pain and the words about the pain, and it drowned me. “I’m sorry,” I told him again, and I wondered if this was the last time I’d talk to him.

“Me too,” he sighed right as I passed through the doorway. I left him there holding cold pancakes, wondering if I was strong enough to give him up.

Bitty was sitting on the stairs with long, yellow rubber gloves. They looked ridiculous and strangely perfect. “Time for a dramatic exit,” I told him wryly, “Think I can backflip off the roof?”

He huffed, “Absolutely not. Ransom and Holster tried once, with mattresses—you know what?” he drawled, “I don’t think I should tell you that story. You seem the type to get ideas.”

“Yep, I one hundred percent am, yeah.” I ran my hands through my hair and hesitated for a second. “Where’s my hat?”

He started up the stairs, complaining, “I put it on my dresser. What kind of heathen sleeps with his hat on?”

The bedroom door shut behind us. “Don’t you like heathens?” I teased, leaning against the wall. I figured Jack probably wasn’t anticipating that my version of “leaving him alone” would include flirting with his cute teammate, but then again he didn’t specify. The world hurt less when I was looking at Bitty.

“Not at all, Mr. Parson,” he murmured. I didn’t stop him when he leaned in this time, couldn’t if I wanted to, because fucking hell there was something _primal_ about what he did to me. I let him pull me through the kiss, his soft lips parting to press his tongue against me, hands running chastely against my sides. I tasted pancakes and spearmint toothpaste. My hands didn’t belong to me. They belonged to some higher power that needed every inch of Eric Bittle explored and catalogued to understand what fucking _heaven_ should feel like and I’d made it to his thighs when he pulled away. “Should I be worried about you, Parse?” he pressed.

“What do you mean, Bits?”

“Well here I am kissin’ you—very good job by the way—,” I muttered a _Gee, thanks_ , as he continued, his eyes serious and hands comforting on my waist, “and you’ve _just_ said goodbye to Jack which—y’all were so—,”

I took a hand off his thighs to clasp his shoulder. “Bits, that—,” I hesitated when I realized what I was about to say and that I meant it. It hurt like hell that I meant it, but somewhere under the hell it felt a little good to tell him, “I haven’t had Jack in a long time. This was just saying it out loud.” I watched him carefully, and I was already kicking myself for it as I asked, “Should I worry about _you_?”

“Hun, why—,”

“C’mon, Bits, I’ve seen your fuckin’ goo-goo eyes.” _I really should just leave it alone,_ I thought. But I was scared it’d be worse for him, and worse for me when I ended up knocked on my ass from all this, if I acted like I couldn’t tell he was nuts for Jack.

He hadn’t taken his hands off my waist. If anything they pressed tighter into my flannel shirt. “Okay, hun, so I have a big ol’ crush on Jack Zimmermann. Can’t I have one on you too?”

He made some good points. “You—you have a ‘big ol’ crush’ on me?” I smirked.

“Don’t chirp my accent or I’ll change my mind,” he scolded, smacking my arm gently.

My right hand was still down on his thigh. I brought it up to his hip instead and only half-jokingly asked, “You’d leave me that easy, Bits?”

“Depends,” he tilted his head and kissed me again, sucking on my bottom lip just a little, “what am I leaving?”

Good question that I had taken literally zero time to consider. It was cool; I was very charming. I could figure out something suave and seductive to say instead of a real answer. “Uh…dunno.” He laughed into our next kiss, moving his hands up to my neck. Kissing Bitty left you with the feeling he had a secret he’d tell if you touched him just the right way. I moved my hands around, looking, couldn’t sit still, had something I was supposed to find in him.

He tugged me backwards, towards the bed, and pulled me on top of him. His hands slid under my shirt, counting the ridges of my spine, trying to nudge under my jeans and being halted by my belt. He huffed, like he was personally offended I wore one, and started fumbling with the buckle. I chuckled and kissed at his neck, tasting the faintest hint of soap still on his skin. I heard thudding that started from the attic and travelled down the main stairs. The Haus was waking up. “Are people gonna wonder where you are, Bits?” My belt whipped across the room, which was really a bit dramatic.

“Naw,” he assured me, and he gasped when he grabbed my ass to pull me closer and felt how hard I was already against his thigh. God, I was so fucking hard I wanted to cry and I buried my face into the mattress, cheek against his neck, to keep from sobbing when he wrapped a hand around my cock and stroked, just a little, just enough to show me he knew exactly how.

I pulled him up with me and leaned us against the pillows, nipping at his lips, testing how much he liked teeth and he started unbuttoning my shirt but got impatient with that and pulled it off over my head instead. He liked to throw my clothes around so I pulled his off slowly just to chirp him. They sat in a little pile on the edge of the bed. Then we had no clothes left, and the way he bit my shoulder the exact moment he bucked his hips against mine to rub our cocks together sent a moan through my body that turned into his name. “Bits, oh God Bitty, Jesus _fuck_ yes yes fucking hell fuck fuck _fuck_ you do that incredible Bits oh God — _,_ ”

“Parse,” he gasped, fingers tangled in my hair while I babbled, grinding against me with a rhythm so precise I thought maybe he was listening to music I couldn’t hear.

“Yeah Bits?”

“You ever hush up?”

I couldn’t tell if he was chirping me or not. His pupils were so thick I could barely tell his eye color if I hadn’t memorized it already. “No— _Jesus_ _—_ not if you — _fuck that feels so good_ _—_ yeah, no—,”

“Good,” he whispered, but then his tongue was in my mouth again so actually I kind of did keep quiet, unless you counted the way I hummed against his teeth and moaned down his throat when he brought a hand to my cock and rubbed even as we still thrust against each other. I’ve fucked in bathroom stalls and airplanes and on king sized beds in hotel rooms, drunk and sober, a million different ways since I was fifteen, and none of that was _exactly_ the same as the way I came in Bitty’s hands while his lips trembled into a smile. Some people were just made to fucking destroy you.

He grabbed tissues from his nightstand while I wrapped my arms around his middle, kissing his neck from behind. I slipped a hand across his abs, feeling the muscles tighten in anticipation when I wrapped a hand around him and stroked. He was so hard and perfect and he made little whining noises that made me dizzy they were so fucking sexy; I was starting to get my senses back enough to worry people might hear us because the Haus didn’t exactly have good walls but there was significant commotion downstairs and Bits was moaning something like _“so good, darlin’”_ and I remembered I didn’t fucking care, actually, not as much as I cared about touching him.

He melted into a boneless heap when he came and I had to keep him from slipping out of my lap and off the bed.

 

I normally felt a little weird staying naked after I fucked someone, like they’d suddenly see too much of me and be afraid. But I lay cuddling with Bits, listening to him explain the first time he tried to bake a pie with a lattice crust, dreading having to slid back into jeans because that would feel a little like building a wall. I tried not to think about the last person who had made me feel this safe.

Bart called me at 1:35 PM. I answered reluctantly and with a vague sense of _you are super fucked, Kent._ “Hey, Bart, how’s my little angel?” Bitty raised an eyebrow at me. I mouthed, “ _Cat_.”

“Parson, where the fuck are you?”

“Not good, then?” I winced.

“You were supposed to catch the red eye and be home an _hour_ ago.”

I started, “Yeah, um, about that—,”

“Are you even at the airport? _Please_ tell me your flight just landed, because so help me God—,” I’d forgotten I had a hangover until Bart started yelling at me.

“I am, uh, at _an_ airport yeah. In Boston.”

Bits scolded, “That’s not even remotely true, Kent Parson.”

“Is someone there with you? Parson I _cannot_ stay in the house with this cat — did you say _Boston?!_ ”

I put him on speakerphone, shushing Bits, and looked up flight times. “Yeah, sure did Bart, yup. I’ll be home in seven hours, give or take.” I could hear Kit yowling in the background.

“Parson, you can’t be—,”

“Look Bart I’m really sorry—you can lock Kit in the bedroom if you need to. I gotta go if I’m gonna catch this flight.” I clicked off the phone and rubbed my temples. Bitty’s disapproving glare was somehow much more threatening than if he’d actually said anything. “Kit gets lonely but she also hates everyone?” I ventured, tentatively reaching across him to grab the underwear that had landed on top of his lamp.

“Parse, did you skip your flight and leave some poor man alone with your cat?”

I groaned, “Look, Bits, I would’ve caught the flight and all but I ended up spooning with this _really_ hot hockey player who also bakes and that’s kinda the total package, you know?”

His lips twitched like he was going to mimic my smirk but he hid his face behind the dresser, pulling out my belt. “You still owe that man an apology.”

“For like, thirty different things, yeah I know,” I sighed, shimmying into my boxers and blue jeans. The belt tapped lightly against my ass and I whipped around to look at him in surprise.

He let out a half-giggle at the sight of my face and handed over the weapon before starting to get dressed himself. I wrapped myself around him instead of putting my shirt on. “Mr. Parson, not that I don’t _appreciate_ the attention, but you do need to go home.”

 _I don’t want to_. I was almost brave or dumb enough to say it. But that wasn’t the kind of thing you said to a guy you’d just met and jacked off in his room once, or really to anyone if you were Kent Parson. So I put on my hat like it was armor and I said, “Yeah, I know. You gonna get me out of this house without making a scene, Bits?”

He straightened the collar on my flannel and chirped, “I would’ve thought you liked making scenes, Mr. Parson.”

“Only for the media,” I winked and ruffled his hair. “But anyway, if I go down first—,”

“What a gentleman,” he drawled, deadpan. I wanted to push him against the wall and kiss every inch of him.

“Fucking hell, Bits, you’re gonna kill me before I get the chance—that’s not the point—if I go say hi to everyone first they probably won’t think about it if you follow, right?”

He shrugged, “Well I’m not lettin’ you go off the roof so that’s what we’ve got.” He opened the door.

“I really think the backflip could—,”

“ _Out_ ,” he commanded, pushing me into the hallway.

I smirked, “No, Bits, that’s the part we’re _avoiding_.”

“Hush.”

It turns out they were more excited to see Bitty than me because he came bearing the promise to bake multiple pies, but you know, whatever. No one said anything but Shitty did wink at me when I waved through the window at everyone. I had no idea if that was meaningful or not but he didn’t come off as the kind of guy who’d spill secrets anyway.

I was in line to board my flight when Bits texted me asking for my Snapchat, which I replied with immediately. He sent me a picture of the best looking apple pie I’d ever seen and some happy tongue face emoji. I sent him a selfie with my jaw dropped and texted him back.

 **_Parse (2:53 pm):_  ** _Why would u do this??_

_**Parse (2:53 pm):** Im about to eat dinner on an airplane Bits _

_**Parse (2:53 pm):** Fucking airplane food _

_**Parse (2:53 pm):** I really fcucking want pie now!! _

I signed the last text with two crying-face emojis. He sent me a shrugging person in response, which was the last I heard from him until I touched down in Vegas. I spent the flight agonizing over my life decisions, so you know, a pretty standard five hours. I wanted to kiss Bitty again. I wanted to touch him again, make him _come_ again, and I wanted to do new things too. I’d like to wrap my mouth around his cock to know his taste, to fuck him or _be_ fucked by him, literally anything he wanted. And then there was the more surprising half, which was that I wanted to hold him at night and count the freckles on his nose, listening to every baking story he had until we fell asleep. All those thoughts were about someone I’d known for less than a day, swirling in the same brain that still kinda loved Jack Zimmermann and wanted to hide in the condo with his cat for the rest of his life but also desperately wanted to go to a club and grind with strangers.

 **_Parse (5:10 pm):_  ** _Just landed_

 **_Bits (5:12 pm):_  ** _Give Kit kisses for me_

He ended the text with the winking kiss emoji, which really shouldn’t have made my heart flutter like it did because I wasn’t a teenager anymore, dammit. I climbed out of the taxi and met Bart inside the condo. He looked like he’d been shipped off to war and back while I was gone.

“If I could, I’d fire you, Parson,” he grumbled, handing back my spare key and sulking towards the door.

“Yeah, I’d fire me too, Bart, like one hundred percent.” Kit bolted out from under the sofa and wrapped around me legs. “Hi princess,” I cooed, “were you mean to Daddy’s friend? That wasn’t very nice.”

Bart rubbed his temples. “We aren’t friends and you cat is a dick.”

“Sorry my cat’s a dick—yes, you _are_ but Daddy still loves you Kit, yes he does—how bout I make it up to you? I’ll stay out of the tabloids for like, a week.”

“A month,” he countered.

I smirked, “Two weeks, three if I can.”

“Go to bed, Parson. Shouldn’t you be jet-lagged?”

“Bart it is literally only eight-thirty in Boston right now and I was there less than twenty-four hours.”

“So you’ll make it to the pee wee team tomorrow morning?”

I frowned, “I wouldn’t ditch those kids, Bart.”

“I know, Parson, you asshole.” He slammed the door shut behind him.

 **_Parse (5:26 pm):_ ** _I cant tell if my PR guy like actually hates me or only fake hates me & thinks im adorable and quirky _

**_Bits (5:27 pm):_ ** _Bless your heart leave that man alone_

I sent Bits two snapchats: one of my living room that said “condo sweet condo” and a video of Kit, who was purring up a storm, captioned “she pretends she likes me sometimes.”

In the picture he sent back, he was gasping with a hand covering his mouth, asking, “How did you find such a precious angel?”

I sent him the very first picture I ever took of Kit. She had her hackles raised and I’d captured the exact moment she whipped her paw forward to swipe at my hand. “Same cat.”

“She’s just plucky!! ;)” said his next snapchat. The camera was panned out a little more and I could tell he was in Haus kitchen; in the background it looked like one half of the Frog d-men, a kid with flaming red hair and more freckles than Bitty and I had combined, was putting the other in a headlock.

I sent him a concerned selfie. “Should you save that curly haired guy??”

“Team bonding?? Don’t tell Jack :/” accompanied a better picture of the two guys, who in my opinion looked like they _actually_ wanted to kill each other, but hey, I wasn’t about to hop on another plane and get in the middle of it. Before I could respond, a second picture came in of him biting his lip. “Uhh was that ok??”

I figured he meant talking about Zimms, so I smirked back at him and typed, “It’s cool Bits,” with a second picture adding, “I won’t tell ;)”

In his next picture the two d-men were staring wide-eyed at the camera. “Dex: are you fiLMING US?? Nursey: Chill, bro”

 **_Bits (6:02 pm):_ ** _I have been banned from Snapchat. They threatened my oven  :(((_

 **_Bits (6:02 pm):_ ** _Don’t they know no oven = no pies??_

 **_Parse (6:02 pm):_ ** _Bummer_

I scratched Kit’s ears absentmindedly; she bit me, which meant my “I missed you, Daddy” karma was wearing off. I moved to under her chin, which she usually tolerated for longer. Then I took a deep breath.

 **_Parse (6:03 pm):_ ** _Wanna Skype later?_

He took a few minutes to respond, which meant I harassed Kit with affection to calm my nerves.

 **_Bits (6:07 pm):_ ** _I have an exam Monday I haven’t started studying for…_

He added shifty eyes and crying emoji.

 **_Bits (6:07 pm):_ ** _So absolutely_

I snorted. I would almost feel guilty helping him procrastinate, but I had a feeling he’d find some other way of pulling that off if it wasn’t through me. So at nine-thirty, past midnight back at Samwell, I crawled into bed dressed in the most presentable pajamas I owned. Well, alright, I may or may not have only owned exactly one pair of pajamas at that point in my life, because I like to sleep naked okay? So I was dressed in those and they looked nice because they had literally never been used.

“Where’s Kit?” Bits pouted as soon as the video came through.

“Okay first of all, _hi_ Bits,” I rolled my eyes, “and second of all it’s not late enough at night for her to be speaking to me. Stick around ‘til like, eleven—uh, two AM for you.”

He was dressed in a red Samwell tee shirt and a cardigan, Señor Bun cradled under one arm. “Hi, Parse. And I’ll—,” he yawned, “see about that. I’m pretty worn out.”

“Sorry, I know it’s late there. We don’t have to…”

“Oh, it’s fine! Normally I’m up this late anyway, but it’s been a long twenty four.”

I smirked, “Jesus, we hadn’t even met this time yesterday, huh?”

“Not quite.”

 _Feels like I’ve known you longer,_ I thought, but that was in the wrong direction. Like I cared more about looking behind. “I, uh, wanna get to know you better, Bits.” I winced. I sounded like a complete fucking idiot, like a character in a teen romance novel. He was staring at me with an open, expectant expression; apparently my vague statement wasn’t enough to earn a response. “I, um, well like — I know what I look like, in the papers — and it’s not like that’s _not_ me — ,” I realized I was rambling, at this point, “cause like, I _like_ going to clubs and — but with _you_ _—_ ,” Oh God why wasn’t he stopping me? Someone needed to put me out of my misery and he just stared at me, chirping me silently, “I just, um—fuck—wow, okay—I don’t wanna just hook up with you at Epikegster, okay? I wanna keep talking to you and, uh, see you again.”

I think he was trying really hard not to laugh at me. I was pretty sure I hadn’t blushed this hard in years and was it always so hot in this room? I lifted my laptop and kicked off some of the covers. Wryly, he asked, “Ain’t that what we’re already doin’? Or do you text all your hook-ups when you get home from the airport?”

The tension scattered from my body and I laughed, “No, I don’t Bits.” I smoothed my cowlick and grinned. “So, uh, how should we…? I mean I can Skype and text and stuff, and—oh, you’re about to go on winter break, right? Would you wanna come visit after Christmas?” I couldn’t help but get a little excited, okay? It’d been a really long time since I had someone I could make these kinds of plans with. Someone I _wanted_ to make plans with. “Some guys on the team always throw a New Year’s Eve thing, it’s fucking great, and shit it’s even home games that week if you wanted—”

We spent a while making plans for his visit before the conversation shifted to Bitty’s time as a figure skater. His eyes were starting to droop by the time Kit Purrson leapt up onto the bed with a quiet meow, but he was pushing through his story anyway. “Yes, and then Katya—oh my goodness, if that’s Kit then—oh good Lord it _is_ almost two AM!”

I slid the laptop further down my lap to give Kit more room on my chest and nodded with a tired smile. “Yeah, you gonna head to bed, Bits?”

“Yeah, hun, I better. ‘less you wanna study and take that test for me?”

I laughed, “I’ll pass. Uh, talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Parse.”

“Night, Bits.” I closed the laptop screen slowly, shaking my head at Kit, who was purring loudly. “What the hell am I getting into, baby girl?” She pawed at my face playfully and I kissed her head.

 

~*~

 

We blazed through a roadie out west and then Christmas flew by in a nice blur; I spent it with my mom and sister up in New York, evading their questions about why I was spending so much time on my phone. Bart was very impressed with how well I was keeping my promise to stay out of the tabloids; I didn’t tell him it was mostly thanks to all the time I spent Skyping a cute Georgian baker.

I picked Bits up from the airport the day before New Year’s Eve and hugged him for like, a fucking ridiculous amount of time. On the drive home I drove one-handed so I could lace our fingers together while he chatted about the very nice family he gave his apple pie recipe to on the flight down, and I really felt like this couldn’t possibly happening even when I closed the condo door behind us and got to kiss him deep and slow. I thought maybe we should do something with his suitcase but he seemed determined to leave a trail of my clothes leading into the bedroom and okay, yeah, that was a way better plan than unpacking.

 

~*~

 

“ _Kent Parson_ ,” Bitty scolded, swatting my hand away from the pie cooling on my kitchen island, “I swear to the Lord in Heaven if you touch that pie before we get to the party—,” I kissed him because I could. Damn, if that wasn’t the best fucking feeling in the world.

“Sorry, Bits,” I mumbled into his lips, and pecked a kiss onto his nose for good measure, “I can’t help it.” He huffed at me and tried to ruffle my hair before shooing me back into the bedroom. He was already fully dressed in a cotton shirt and blazer, looking so good I could kind of fucking die, while I helplessly wandered the condo in my boxers. “God, babe, you look like a fucking model and I have exactly zero things that’ll make me look that nice.”

“Honey, this is just how I _dress_ . I keep tellin’ you to wear whatever you like,” he called from the kitchen, where he was probably gathering up the pies. “You’re _so_ handsome, and it’s not like we should look like a couple, anyway…”

Shit, I knew I’d forgotten to mention something. “Oh, uhh, about that? I’m out to the team, actually, yeah.”

“You—oh!—that’s great hun! You think you coulda mentioned that to me, hm?” He waltzed into the bedroom and swatted at my ass without batting an eye.

“Jesus—uh, sorry, babe. I kinda just…forgot you’d assume I wasn’t? It’s uh—I came out two years ago, after we won the Cup, so it’s been a while.” I slipped on my favorite non-flannel button-up, light gray, and a pair of black jeans. “Haven’t gone public though, obviously.” I frowned at my collection of snapbacks. “Which hat?”

I expected him to chirp me because to quote basically everyone else I’ve ever asked, _“All the hats are basically the same, Parse”_ but instead he leaned against my side and scrutinized the collection. “This one,” he decided, plucking one of my older caps that was all black except for the white spade on the front.

I tucked my sloppy half-curls up under the hat, savoring the warm fluttering feeling in my stomach. “Thanks, Bits.”

I rang the bell to Stenzy’s building with my elbow, balancing two pies in my arms. Bitty carried the other one, tapping his foot nervously. We were buzzed up almost immediately, and thankfully the door was cracked open when we made it up there. The apartment was crowded this early in the night; later the older guys with families would filter home.

“Lookit here, Parser brought a boy home to meet the family!” someone whooped from across the living room. “You know you just lost me a very expensive bet, eh?” It was Swoops, who managed to punch my arm _and_ steal a pie before I could react to either.

My hat lasted maybe three minutes before Stenzy snatched it to ruin my hair. “Can’t believe I said I’d sing karaoke with you crazy bastards if Parser here showed up tied down. That was a joke bet, right?”

The apartment booed him as I set our pies on the counter and tried to snatch the hat back from Stenzy. “How long have you fuckers been betting on my love life?” I griped, smirking at the boisterous group. Bitty seemed equal parts concerned and amused. Someone called out “ _Which bet?”_ while I continued, “Besides, I haven’t even introduced him.” I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “This could be my fuckin’ cousin, guys.”

“He’s too cute to be related to you, Parser,” Swoops chirped, handing me a shot glass. “Nice to meet ya, definitely-not-Parse’s-cousin.” He offered Bitty a fist bump.

“Pleasure’s mine. I’m Bitty, and Lord I hope we’re not related—no offense, hun.”

“None taken Bits, but I am gonna need another fucking drink.” I steered him into the kitchen, downing my shot glass which was apparently filled with vodka. Ew. The pies were dismantled rapidly; I snatched a piece of blueberry before it all vanished. We (mostly me) endured another round of chirping from the teammates in the kitchen. I looked over at Bitty, grinning, and was caught off-guard by his expression. “Whatcha looking at me like that for, Bits?”

“What? Oh, nothin’ sweetheart. It’s just—this wasn’t what I expected at all and I—I’m really happy for you.”

I stared at him for a second, puzzled, before I understood and accused with a smirk, “You thought I had no fuckin’ friends, didn’t you?”

“No! Not like that, I just—,”

“You totally did! You thought I was the lone wolf of Las Vegas, huh Bits?” I was chirping him now, playful hands tickling lightly at his sides, “Didn’t sign up for dorky Captain Parse and his dumbass friends?”

“I can hear you, Parser! See if I ever buy you a drink again, eh?”

“I don’t need your shitty vodka, Swoops,” I shot back, and turned to look at my boyfriend again, who was biting back laughter which scrunched up the freckles on his nose.

“Hun, just—you seemed so sad and lonely when we met.”

I laughed a little, because, “Yeah, I was that night. And I miss Jack sometimes still and it hurts, but I’m not—that’s mostly not me, anymore.” And then I tested just a little with a joke, just to be really sure. “You want a refund, Bits?” I asked softly, pulling him in a little closer.

He smiled at me gently, because I knew he was thinking _I see through this, Parse_ , and answered, “Hell no.” Then he leaned away from my lips and taunted, “But no kiss ‘til midnight,” and I groaned.

“Okay, two things: first of all, you’re gonna fucking kill me,” I reached behind him to scavenge the tequila I knew Stenzy hid in the back of the cupboard, smirking triumphantly at the way his breathing changed the tiniest bit when my shirt lifted, “and secondly, I’d like to get pretty fucking trashed.”

Bitty decided to join me in my quest and we found him a shot glass. “You want a chaser, Bits?” I asked after pouring us a round, going for the fridge where I was pretty confident there was a stash of limes. He responded by maintaining what was really an unnecessary level of eye contact while he downed the shot in the most beautiful, fluid motion I had ever seen. He might as well have just sipped some water.

“Honey,” he drawled, “I was raised in moonshine country. Nothin’ you can hand me is gonna come close to that, good Lord.”

I fell a little in love.

When midnight rolled around, I was squashed against Swoops on the couch, someone’s girlfriend on the other side, with Bits in my lap leaning against my chest. Sober, I might’ve been embarrassed to do that even _with_ how great my guys were, but I was like, six shots past that point and Bits was on his fifth vodka cranberry ( _“Just ‘cause I_ can _shoot tequila don’t mean I want to and don’t you dare chirp me, Kent Parson”_ ) and I guess no one really cared after all. I kissed him at midnight and at twelve-o-one and at twelve-o-two and for part of three-past twelve but then someone threw a shoe at us. Like, an actual fucking shoe. The nerve of some people.

We climbed into an Uber somewhere around one AM, which was definitely pushing pretty late in Samwell-time, laughing hysterically and falling over each other in the back. I couldn’t remember what was funny and I tried to pull myself together when I told the driver my address. He peered at us through the rearview mirror and asked, “Are you Kent Parson?”

“You betcha I am,” Bits blurted out, patting the guy on the shoulder, and that was really fucking funny because _I_ was Kent Parson, not him, and I started laughing all over again, laughter so intense it made my sides hurt and I thought about how great it’d be if this was what all pain was: laughing in the back seat of an Uber because you were drunk with your boyfriend and a little in love, but you wouldn’t tell him that after three weeks, and that was okay because maybe there’d be more weeks, you know?

“Uhh, okay…” mumbled the driver, and he gave up on conversation when Bitty started trying to explain, unprovoked, why Kent Parson had a southern accent.

I dropped my keys a couple times on the way up to the condo and there was an elevator but that was _cheating_ so we stumbled and shushed each other up the stairs and giggled louder every time one of us shushed the other. I locked the door behind us and tried to carry him into the bedroom, which went about as well as you’d expect from sloppy-drunk Kent. “No I can — stop chirping me Bits — oh my _God_ I _will_ drop you — ow that’s my — _I will drop you stop_ _—_ ,” which was the approximate point we tumbled to the ground because I’m not really qualified to coordinate my _own_ body, let alone two, when someone is trying to suck hickeys onto my neck and chest.

“My turn,” he giggled and tried to scoop me up off the floor. After a few clumsy attempts and some curse words I didn’t know Bits was capable of we both gave up on that idea and tripped our way over to the bed, tangling up in an undignified pile of limbs. I covered him in wet kisses and he snickered, “That man thought I was Kent Parson.”

“Babe, I think he meant _me_.”

“Nonono, you’re the _real_ Kent Parson,” he corrected me.

I looked up from where I was mouthing at his shoulder. “I...yeah, I know.”

“Yeah.” He said seriously, nodding, and then he dissolved into giggles again, touching at my face and hair. “Hey—hey, have I—Kent that _tickles_ \--have I told you about the time Chowder ruined my pie?”

Our laughter and half-assed stories eventually fell back into sultry kisses, slow and with gentle tongues, like that was everything anyone could ever do. Kit nudged open the door and curled up against Bitty instead of me. I whispered, “Traitor,” and we both laughed at that until we fell asleep.

 

~*~

 

“Can we bring Bitty to all our games, Parser?” Swoops asked in the locker room, “I think he’s good luck.” We’d just had an easy victory and everyone was feeling the adrenaline.

“Look, as much as I’d love to start that superstition—oof!—hi babe—I don’t think Bits wants to get whisked away from college twice a week.”

Bitty sighed dramatically. “College, yes. The boys and Haus? Not really.”

Stenzy looked up from unlacing his skates. “What’s the Haus?”

“Oh Lord, let me tell you about that hot mess of a frat house all right? First of all there’s this couch I _swear_ I’ll burn before I graduate…”

 

We snuck Bits into our favorite club, where I actually spent very little time with him because nearly all the girlfriends (and some of the guys, to my amusement) demanded dance lessons as soon as they saw his hips move. I didn’t mind though, because the way his eyes smoldered at me from across the club punched harder than the tequila.

I was significantly less drunk this time when we made it home, enough so that I could _actually_ carry Bitty through the bedroom door and toss him on my bed, climbing on top of him hungrily.

“Kent Parson, do _not_ send me home to my mother with a hickey on my neck!” he chided, gripping my hair and pushing me lower down his body. I obliged, nesting my lips under his collarbone. He whined, arching against the mattress when I brought a hand down to his boxer-briefs. His pants hadn’t made it past the foyer and mine were draped across one of Kit’s cat trees.

“Fuck Bits, watching you dance with everyone— _fuck_ ,” I repeated, moaning when he rubbed a leg against me, “was so fucking hot.”

He was a hickey-hypocrite. I looked forward to the bruise under my chin. “It was, hun? I was—oh _Lord_ _—_ worried, ‘specially when that guy—,”

I yanked his underwear off and pressed my lips to his cock, feeling him squirm with anticipation. “Fucking hell, babe, that was—,” I licked around the tip, hands pattering against his thighs, “the best part.” I slid my mouth down his length slowly, savoring the little gasps he made every time I stroked with my tongue. I palmed myself lazily, eyes closed, fading back to the club.

The guy had leaned into Bitty’s ear from behind, a confident hand touching lightly at the waist. I’d watched from my seat at the bar, sipping a tequila shot, given Bits an eager nod when he looked at me. He’d melted backwards instantly, collapsing into the beat of the club music, grinding his ass against a stranger. I’d shuddered and slid the stool farther under the counter to hide my erection.

“Parse?” he gasped, fingers laced tightly in my hair. I mumbled into his cock and sucked harder. “Will you—um, _Lord_ _—_ would you finger me?”

Jesus fuck, _would_ I? I slide my mouth off him, shivering at the moan he gave in response, and propped up on my knees to fumble in the nightstand for my bottle of lube. He sat up and kissed at my neck, pressing his hot skin against my body. I breathed, “God, Bits,” and traced my thumb along the band of freckles on his nose, down across his lips, the bone of his jaw. I pulled my hand away to open the bottle and kissed him tenderly. As I leaned him back to straddle him, I asked, “Have you, um—,”

“No, but I—I really want you to,” he told me, his eyes dark and thirsty, bottom lip plump and shaking.

I reassured him with a smirk. “Alright, Bits.” Starting with one finger slick with lube, I slid in slowly, mimicking the pace with my tongue between his lips. I licked leisurely, tapping lightly against his teeth, the corners of his mouth, and he kissed me back with rapidly increasing desperation. “You’re so great, Bits,” I broke away to murmur, “God, you’re just incredible—more?”

“Ye—es, Parse, _Lord_ _—_ ,”

“Fuck I love kissing you—,” I slid a second finger inside him slowly, feeling him tense around me. I paused, running my free hand up his side gently, “you’re so sexy, Bits, and sweet—,” he melted back into the pillows and I slid my fingers farther, crooking them a little when I heard his breathing change.

“Parse—Kent—you’re so—,”

“Fuck, you make me so happy I—,”

“—good at this, all of—,”

“—I can’t believe I have you—,”

“—oh God oh God _Kenny_ _—_ ,”

I faltered for less than a second to figure out why my heart had stopped. He was still saying my name, _Kenny Kenny Kenny_ , and I realized it wasn’t _pain_ making it hard to breathe. I slid another finger inside him and brought my other hand up to his cock.

“O-oh, hun, I-I’ll do that—um, if you want—,” his breath hitched and he balled up the sheets in one hand, the other reaching to slide under my hand and start stroking, “you should touch yourself.”

I chuckled, “Yeah, Bits? Anything you want,” and flipped my hand around, biting hard into my lip at the sudden pleasure. I could feel him getting close as he tightened around me; he grabbed a pillow from behind him and whimpered into it while I watched him come, pulsing a mess onto himself that made me tremble. “ _God, fuck_ _—_ ,” I slid my hand away, gripping the edge of the bed with it, “Bitty, I—,”

He pulled me against him for a kiss, his hands trailing over my body, muttering things into my ear I could barely understand. I came with a sob into his shoulder to _Kenny Kenny Kenny_ and soft fingers on my spine.

 

~*~

 

“Darlin’, where’s my Samwell sweatshirt?”

I shoved the red hoodie under my bed. “Uhh, no idea babe.” It was Bitty’s last day in Vegas and I was handling it super well. I pulled open my laptop and scrolled through my iTunes.

 

_Watching you get dressed messes with my head_

_Take that bag off your shoulder_

 

“Sweetheart, are you playing music? I really don’t have time,” he called from the other room. I heard the sounds of couch cushions flipping. “Where is that dang shirt?”

I smirked, “It’s a good song, babe, listen!”

 

_You should probably stay, probably stay a couple more days_

_Come on let me change your ticket home_

 

“Honey, what are you—,” Bitty walked back into the bedroom to find me sitting cross-legged in his suitcase, hair unkempt on purpose because I’d figured out he liked it that way. “Kent Parson— _bless your heart_ _—_ if you make me miss my flight—,”

“Don’t leave, Bits,” I told him, trying to sound less clingy than I felt, “You still have like, three weeks before classes start. Can’t you—I’ll—I’m gonna miss you, okay? And once you’re back at Samwell it’ll be harder—,”

He sighed and sat down on the bed. He fiddled with his phone, locking and unlocking it a few times. “Did you muss up your hair like that ‘cause of me?”

“Yeah, sure did Bits, yup.”

“You hate your hair mussed up.”

“Yep.” I looked up at him, playing with the suitcase zipper absent-mindedly.

“This boy,” he muttered, always like I couldn’t hear him, when he unlocked the phone again and dialed. “Hi Mother…yes, I’m alright…actually that’s why I’m calling. I think I’m gonna stay here a few more days…No, I _do_ miss you, but I’ve loved this trip too…Parse is my _friend_ , Mother, he’s not getting me into trouble…yeah, just a few days…I’ll just change the flight, Mama…I love you too and I’ll see you in a few days.”

He hung up the phone and frowned at it. Worried, I backtracked, “Bits, if you wanna go see your family…”

He tried to smile at me but it only made him look sadder. “It ain’t that part, it’s…lying about why I’m here.” Oh. I nodded and held out my arms, inviting him to join me in the suitcase. He tutted at me but climbed into my lap, draping his legs over the side.

“I’m sorry, babe.” There wasn’t much else to say, really, so I nuzzled his neck and squeezed him in a hug. I wasn’t sure if I should, but I offered anyway, “So like, I get this whole thing is early and a little fucking weird—what? It is—but I’d, well, I’d be there, you know? If you wanted to come out to them. Or, uh, if you didn’t want to mention me at all I’d get that too.”

He sniffed and pressed his forehead against the side of my neck. “That’s—you’re so sweet, honey. I don’t think I’m ready for all that just yet but…thank you.”

“Of course, Bits.”

“…hey, honey? Is that my sweatshirt under your bed?”

“Wow, that is _so weird_! I have no idea how that got there, zero percent.”

“ _Kent Parson._ ”

 

~*~

 

I negotiated my way into keeping the sweatshirt after all, and sat in bed wearing it the first time I Skyped Bitty when he got back to Samwell. We spent almost two minutes chirping each other when we realized we’d both made the same fashion choice; he sat cross-legged in the slightly-too-big Aces sweatshirt I’d snuck into his suitcase.

“You really have the better half of this clothing deal, Bits,” I complained, “I barely got my arms through this thing.”

“You be thankful I bought that _big_ on me,” he huffed, arms crossed.

I smirked, “So you like big things? Because I—,”

“You hush, half the Haus is still awake.”

“I’ll be up all night, far as east coast is concerned,” I reminded him with a wink.

He winked back at me, before leading into, “So, about the Haus…they know we’ve been talking,” he waved his hands around, flopping the ends of sweatshirt as he did so, “but _not_ dating, thank goodness.”

I raised an eyebrow. We’d decided not to tell his friends yet, mostly because of Jack, who I wasn’t really prepared to face (and I was kind of pushing my luck staying closeted, as it was). “I’m not upset, but, uh, how’d they find out?”

“It’s so dang _stupid_ , hun,” he rubbed his temples and leaned against the headboard. “So you know how Ransom is a little, er, _passionate_ about you and the Aces?”

“I didn’t, but sweet. Continue.”

He responded by pursing his lips and sending me a link. I opened it up, and it was just some typical fluff piece about the team, called “Aces Drink Up Home-Rink Advantage.” I skimmed it and didn’t really understand how this could’ve possibly affected us at all. “Bits, what—,”

“Who’s the cutest boy you can find in that big photo of the stands up top?” he drawled.

“Uh…” I indulged him, taking time to look at the picture closer. A little off-center was Bitty, clear as day, sporting one of my old jerseys and cheering like crazy. “You. What the fuck, man, really? And Ransom noticed?”

“His exact words were, in the middle of the kitchen at dinner time, ‘Bitty, do you _hate us?_ ’ and I said no, of course not, so then he asks, ‘Then why did you go to _Las Vegas_ without us?’ and then _Lord_ did I panic because there are _so_ many pictures that could have been on that laptop honey, and it was just a silly picture I’m _barely_ in—,”

“Babe, you are the _star_ of this picture. I might frame it, even. Is it too soon in our poorly concealed secret relationship to start hanging photos?” He bit back a giggle and shook his head. “Okay, so, uh, what’d everyone do?”

“Well, Rans and Holster are demanding to Skype you with me next week, and poor sweet baby Chowder is worried about asking you for an autograph because all he owns is Sharks stuff, and Nursey told him to chill which made _Dex_ mad and Jack—uh,” he laughed lightly, “he, um, asked how you were doing?”

“Did he?” I raised my eyebrows, ignoring the flutter that passed through my stomach. “What’d you say?”

“I said you were doing really well and—that you missed him, but hope he’s okay—was that okay?”

“Yeah, Bits, thanks,” I smiled.

He laughed again and added, “Oh, and he said—,” he scrunched up his eyebrows and gave his best shot at copying Jack’s accent, “he said, ‘Bittle, don’t let Kent take advantage of your friendship,’” and kept giggling to himself, which I didn’t really understand.

“Bits, that’s not—why are you laughing?”

He smiled ruefully at me. “Because, honey, I’m pretty sure I could take you for everythin’ and the kitchen sink if I wanted.”

I grinned, “Oh yeah, you definitely could, Bits, yep. Wanna? I’ll mail you some credit cards.”

“You hush.”

 

~*~

 

Two weeks later, I was naked, basking in the afterglow of some fucking _amazing_ Skype sex, when someone started banging on Bitty’s door. “ _Good Lord_! Hold on one moment!” He jumped out of bed and shimmied into the first pair of shorts he found. He panicked and (I assume, because we all lived to tell the tale) minimized Skype instead of ending the call, because I could still see and hear Ransom and Holster barging into the room. I cut my webcam off just in case, but didn’t end the call because, you know, eavesdropping is awesome and definitely not an invasion of privacy.

“Heeeeey, Bitty, you still friends with Parse?” Holster started, leaning against the doorframe.

 **_Parse (9:00 pm):_ ** _Sup Bits gonna narrate this shit play by play_

“Um, yes?” Bitty replied, casually shoving what was probably his bottle of lube under a pillow. “What do y’all—,”

“ _Do you know anything about his girlfriend?!_ ” Ransom blurted, and I had to mute my mic before my cackling gave me away.

 **_Parse (9:02 pm):_ ** _Even *I* don’t know about my girlfriend_

 **_Parse (9:02 pm):_ ** _My double life is getting fucked up babe_

“Lord, I—what in the hell are y’all goin’ on about?” Bitty asked, his back to the camera.

Ransom pulled out his phone and showed him some sort of article. I googled _Kent Parson girlfriend_ and found a single recent article in a semi-reputable online paper that seemed to have spread the idea to the rest of the tabloids. It was speculating that I, Kent Parson, had hung up my playboy hat (I really do have a hat with the playboy bunny on it; it was a birthday gift) because I had a mystery girlfriend keeping me honest.

 **_Parse (9:05 pm):_ ** _I had no idea I was cheating on you I’m so sorry_

Ransom was explaining, “So anyway, this reporter is saying Parse’s _gotta_ have a girlfriend because no one’s seen him taking anyone home from a club since, like, December, but no one can get a picture of her.”

 **_Parse (9:08 pm):_ ** _Ok I wasn’t sleeping with those girls it was pick-up Scrabble tourneys_

 **_Parse (9:08 pm):_ ** _Just kidding Ive had a ton of sex_

 **_Parse (9:08 pm):_ ** _Sorry is that weird_

“So we were wondering if you met this girl, or anything?” Holster finished.

 **_Parse (9:09 pm):_ ** _Omg this is way better than reality tv_

 **_Parse (9:09 pm):_ ** _Not better than anime tho_

Bitty’s shoulders were hunched a little like when he didn’t want to laugh at something, and I could tell he was trying to keep this thing together.

 **_Parse (9:09 pm):_ ** _If you laugh in their faces itll b worth it_

 **_Parse (9:09 pm):_ ** _Do it_

But Bitty was, predictably, a stronger man than I am and managed to not cackle his beautiful blond head off. “Sorry, guys. I’m pretty sure there’s no girlfriend, but if there is I haven’t met her.”

 **_Parse (9:10 pm):_ ** _Her name is Velma_

 **_Parse (9:10 pm):_ ** _She likes turtlenecks and SOLVING CRIMES_

“You sure, Bitty? ‘Cause it makes, like, a _lot_ of sense.”

 **_Parse (9:11 pm):_ ** _Ok so like tbf it does it’s just im a flaming bisexual_

 **_Parse (9:11 pm):_ ** _Shitty would be v upset at these gendered assumptions_

Bitty sighed, “Guys, I—yeah, I’m sure. Can I finish my homework, please?”

A (second) Canadian voice chirped from the doorway, “No one help Bittle procrastinate. He does that enough on his own.”

 **_Parse (9:12 pm):_ ** _Holy shit Jack is awake??_

 **_Parse (9:12 pm):_ ** _Also whoops im like the BEST at helping you procrastinate ;) ;)_

 **_Parse (9:12 pm):_ ** _Fuck now im horny again_

 **_Parse (9:12 pm):_ ** _Did you actually have hw_

Ransom and Holster both filtered out of the bedroom in the direction of the attic, and Jack chatted briefly with Bitty in the hallway. They were quieter than before and I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but Jack was smiling. I wasn’t sure which part or who I was jealous of, but I was glad when the door closed and Bits flopped back on his bed in full view of the laptop. I popped my video and sound back on, waving at him as he started, “Okay, honey, that was— _nineteen_ texts? _Why?_ ”

 

~*~

 

It was early April. I was engrossed in Neko Atsume: Cat Collector when Bitty’s Skype call came through; I answered it eagerly but tilted back down to my phone almost immediately, tapping away. “Hey, babe, one second.”

“Whacha doin’, hun?” He asked, leaning in closer to the camera like that would help him see my phone.

I held the game up excitedly. “It’s this fucking awesome—okay it’s a little silly but like—okay so you put out food and shit for these cats and they just, show up? And they chill in your yard for a while and you can take pictures and—yeah that’s basically it—but you can play in Japanese which is fucking great because I was getting a little rusty—oh and there’s this _one_ cat called Peaches I haven’t been able to find and I think she likes this big bowl so I’m trying different foods? And uh—hey, what’d I say?”

Bits was looking at me with this fucking adorable little half-smile and wistful eyes and he sounded like he was pulling back out of a dream. “Oh, nothin’ honey, I was just thinking how I lo—ove you.” I watched his eyes widen a little through the word when he realized he’d said it. But he didn’t try to take it back, didn’t even throw a hand over his mouth like he did when said something he regretted. Just sat there, with an _I love you_ stretching out across the country between us.

“Holy _fuck_ do I love you too, Bits,” and I laughed because no one had ever said that to me before, not like this, and he did his little half-giggle that was my favorite laugh, and then I started fumbling over words, “God, I — what day is it? Fuck, it’s Thursday, I — um, I love you and I really wanna see you? I wanna — God, Bits, I wanna see you, I — and you have that big essay due Tuesday so you shouldn’t fly down here — I’m gonna come tell you in person — I love you — _fuck_ _—_ you love me? Damn, I—is it okay if I fly out tomorrow evening? I won’t come to the Haus because that’d definitely be a shit-show, I know—,”

At some point during my rambling, he did actually agree to me coming out to visit and I booked a flight while I babbled on, laughing with euphoria and disbelief.

The next day, Bitty met me at the hotel and I crushed him to me chest. “I love you, Bits,” I whispered, grinning into his hair.

“I love you too, darlin’,” he murmured, tracing fingers up and down my back. I chased the words with my lips so I could drink them in, keep them suspended between us.

We were trapped in kisses, tangled up in clothes we hadn’t really taken off properly, like maybe this was the first time we’d touched. I pulled away to look at him better and breathe out a question that made me feel like I was fifteen, a part of my brain cataloging all the ways this time was different and the exact fucking same. “You wanna fuck me, Bits?”

He paused, brushed his fingers against my jawline. His eyes were bright and warm. “Yeah.”

 

The next morning, I came back from a food run to Bitty in nothing but a pair of my boxers, lounging on the bed and frowning at his laptop. He was a little over one page into his essay, I discovered, and ignoring a very insistent string of texts that was piling up on his phone. I smirked, “You need to answer that, babe?”

He sighed, “It’s the dang group text. They figured out I didn’t come home last night and you’d think it’s the second comin’ of Christ.”

I handed him a sub-par muffin and nestled my head against his shoulder. “Can I read it?”

“Sure, hun,” he shrugged. I unlocked the phone (his password was Beyoncé’s birthday) and started with texts from the night before, around when my flight landed. Apparently they’d held some kind of stakeout waiting for Bitty to get home. No one had guessed he was with me, thankfully.

“…they’re hanging streamers for you.”

“Good _Lord_.”

 

~*~

 

A few weeks later, I buried my face into a pillow back in Vegas. It was three AM and I’d slept for maybe thirty minutes, total. I’d tried, but I’d woken up from one of those weird nightmares where you couldn’t even remember why you were so uncomfortable, just that you needed to get somewhere _away_.

 **_Parse (2:43 am):_ ** _I’ve been reading fanfiction about myself for 2 hours_

 **_Parse (2:43 am):_ ** _And leaving constructive criticism on the characterization_

 **_Parse (2:43 am):_ ** _Why am I like this_

 **_Parse (3:10 am):_ ** _Kit tried to kill me_

 **_Parse (3:10 am):_ ** _Shouldn’t be surprised_

 **_Parse (3:10 am):_ ** _She jumped off her cat tree in the kitchen_

 **_Parse (3:10 am):_ ** _Like right in front of me_

 **_Parse (3:10 am):_ ** _Like a fucking kamikaze_

 **_Parse (3:23 am):_ ** _Also_

 **_Parse (3:23 am):_ ** _Fuck sleep lol_

My phone buzzed a few minutes later. I paused the string of cat videos I’d been blowing through.

 **_Bits (3:27 am):_ ** _You ok hun?_

 **_Parse (3:27 am):_ ** _Vaguely_

 **_Parse (3:27 am):_ ** _Why are you awake?? Its like 6 am over there_

 **_Bits (3:28 am):_ ** _Just got off the ice_

He added a snapchat. Surprisingly, it was of Jack holding a cup of coffee at some café, captioned, “had a bad game, got roped into morning checking practice again.”

I sent a quick picture back even though I was pretty sure I looked like a hot mess, saying “sorry Bits :((((“

I got a phone call shortly after from a concerned boyfriend, saying, “I know I asked already, but are you okay?”

“Hey babe. Aren’t you at coffee with Zimms? You didn’t have to call me,” I greeted, cracking my neck against the arm of my sofa.

“I just stepped out for a second, hun. You seemed like you’ve been having a rough night, ‘specially with that picture.”

I put him on speaker to peer at myself in my phone’s camera and okay, yeah, I was a disaster. “That’s just the playoff beard, babe. I’m too pretty for facial hair; it fucks up my whole vibe.”

“I Skyped with you four hours ago and you seemed much better.”

“Yeah, the beard must’ve like, reached critical mass while you were sleeping babe.”

“ _Kent_.”

I sighed, “I’m really fine, I just—I can’t sleep and I’m going a little nuts.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, hun. Want me to tell you the ‘Chowder ruining my pie’ story?” he chirped, “That always puts you to sleep.”

I defended, “That’s not the story’s fault; you just always tell it when I’m already tired. Tell me now, I gotta know what happens with the rolling pin.”

“Okay, well sweet baby Chowder wanted to bake a pie for his girlfriend, Farmer, and—oh _goodness_ , what—,” his voice sounded farther away and I could hear another, deeper voice in the background, “no—bless your heart, give—,”

“Bittle’s—ha—unavailable at the— _Crisse,_ Bittle, _manners_ _—_ moment, can I take a message?”

I thought about hanging up the phone. It’d be easy to just click the button and run away. I pictured Bitty jumping on his tip-toes, fingers wiggling trying to get his phone back. I thought about how Jack probably had a soft little grin on his face. “Um, hi, Zimms.”

“ _Oh_ , uh, hi Ken—Parse.” There’d be no smile anymore, probably. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? My new playoffs superstition is crippling insomnia.”

“Parse, that’s—,”

“Don’t worry Zimms, I’m just chirping you. I’m gonna, uh, go now, though.”

“So you’re really okay?”

“Uh huh, super am, Zimms, yeah…thanks.” The line stayed silent so I added, “So, uh, can I…?”

“Oh—here, I’ll…bye, Parse.”

I heard some muffled shuffling and Bitty came back on the line with just a, “Hey,” so I figured Jack was still in earshot.

“Well, that was awkward,” I commented matter of factly, “Um, so I should probably hang up, but I’ll text you, Bits. Bye.”

“Yeah, I—I’ll talk to you later, Parse.”

 **_Parse (3:39 am):_ ** _Love you, Bits_

 **_Bits (3:48 am):_ ** _Love you too, darling_

 **_Bits (3:48 am):_ ** _Btw Jack just spent 10 min asking about you_

I sent him a string of questioning and shocked emoji.

 **_Bits (3:51 am):_ ** _I think I provided a normal amnt of info??_

 **_Parse (3:55 am):_ ** _Did u mention my secret girlfriend Velma_

I shut my laptop screen and crawled back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.

 **_Bits (3:57 am):_ ** _Stop chirping, it was sweet_

I texted Bitty for a few more minutes before I put the phone away and tried to sleep. I thought about Jack being happy enough to flirt with a boy (which, you know, it’d be cool if it wasn’t _Bitty_ , but whatever), Jack being happy enough to ask how I was and not be jealous of the answer. It put a warm feeling in my stomach that lasted until I fell asleep.

 

~*~

 

We got knocked out of the playoffs at the end of the month, which fucking sucked but did have one plus side: there was just one early morning charity event standing between me and surprising Bitty for his birthday. I called him as soon as I made it out of the event; I’d wanted to call that morning, but he was already on the phone with Mama Bittle when I got up.

“Err, hello?” A distinctly _not_ Bitty voice picked up the phone. “This is Derek; Bitty—Eric put me in charge of his phone for the day.”

I thought that was a little weird, but whatever. “Uh, hi. I just wanted to—could I talk to him if he’s around?”

“One sec, bro,” he replied, and he pulled the phone away from his mouth to shout, “Hey, Bitty! Some guy listed as ‘cat emoji’ wants to talk to you!” I smirked.

Bitty came on the line sounding like he’d run from somewhere else. “Hi!”

“Hey babe, happy birthday! So like, two things? One: why does Nursey have your phone? Two: cat emoji?”

“Oh, the boys have been keeping me out of the Haus all day and now I’m not allowed to have my phone. I did text you all that, mister,” he tutted, clucking his tongue at me. He lowered his voice, to add, “And I didn’t want, uh, any questionable texts poppin’ up with your name.”

I laughed, “Sorry, Bits. I called you as soon as I got out of the meeting. And yeah, I gotcha.”

“Thanks for calling, hun, but I think I gotta go. They’re steerin’ me back to the Haus now.”

“Okay, babe. I actually, uh, have another thing today anyway, so I won’t have my phone ‘til tonight.” I left out the part where the _thing_ was a flight into Boston Airport. “Love you.”

“Me too.”

I landed in Boston to a collection of very excited texts from Bitty, who’d been surprised with Betsy 2.0 for his birthday. He, along with his twitter, also made it clear that there was currently a small kegster blazing at the Haus, on a fucking Tuesday. I wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that this was their exam week, too.

 **_Parse (10:00 pm):_ ** _College kids are crazy, bro. They’re throwing a literal fucking kegster for Bits rn._

 **_Swoops (10:03 pm):_ ** _You’re just an old man_

 **_Swoops (10:03 pm):_ ** _Also your cat hates me please help_

I sent him a shrug emoji and hopped in my very modest rental car (like, literally a fucking Camry). The last thing I wanted was to draw the attention tonight. To be honest, I was debating whether or not I should go to the party at all or just hide in a bar until it was over. I was worried about how Jack would handle seeing me again, and about getting swarmed with fans at a party that was supposed to be for Bitty. So when I pulled up at the Haus a little before eleven, I was relieved when it seemed pretty calm inside, like the party was starting to die down.

 **_Parse (10:53 pm):_ ** _You still partying, Bits?_

Fourteen minutes later, he sent me a bizarre string of thumbs up, laughing, crying, and various animal emoji. So I’d been wrong, then. As badly as I wanted to see him, I decided it might be better to let him enjoy the party the way it was; I’d surprise him when it was over.

 **_Parse (11:07 pm):_ ** _Lol guess that’s a yes_

He sent back kissing emoji and hearts in every color. I responded in kind, plus asking him to call me when the party died down, and leaned the seat back to take a power nap. It was past midnight when the phone rang me out of a light sleep.

“Hi darlin’! Sorry about earlier. Would you believe I got roped into _two_ kegstands? Lord.” He sounded relatively sober, actually, so I kind of didn’t.

“Hey babe. Didja have a good birthday?” I asked, climbing out of the car to stare up at the Haus; the lawn was deserted besides for a few guys who looked like lacrosse bros who’d been thrown outside, passed out.

I could see his silhouette waving his hands excitedly in his room. “Oh, honey, it was _wonderful._ I’m sure you saw, but the boys bought me a new oven, and would you know it was all Jack’s idea? And I will miss Betsy, of course, but she was on her last leg, really, and the new Betsy is so _nice_. Oh, and the kegster was a trip, but I did miss your dancin’.”

“I’m glad it was a great night. Sorry about Betsy, babe, but you deserve a fucking nice oven.” I took off my hat to run my fingers through my hair. “Hey, uh, can you do me a weird favor?”

“…Probably?”

I grinned up at the window. “Walk out onto the roof.”

“...Okay, honey, but I don’t know what—,” he stopped when he climbed out of his window and saw me waving from the lawn. He gasped a little and put his free hand over his mouth.

“So, uh, I lied about having a team meeting tomorrow. Surprise!”

Still speechless, Bitty held up a finger and then scrambled back through his bedroom window, hanging up the phone as he went. I waited with a bubbling anticipation as he flew through the front door and jumped at me, wrapping his arms around my neck. I spun him around like the giant fucking sap I am, laughing, wishing him a happy birthday again, saying how much I’d missed him. After his feet touched the ground again, my hands lingering on his waist, I asked, “Think you can sneak me upstairs, Bits?” There was a lazy tinge of warmth in the May air that cut against a chilly midnight breeze.

“Lord, the whole Haus is out like a light. Just don’t step on anyone; some of the boys are sleepin’ on the floor.”

He led me through the Haus between bursts of kisses, giggling conspiratorially with me, pressing up against me to pick our way around sleeping freshmen. His room was suddenly bright compared to the darkened Haus and I squinted while my eyes adjusted to having real vision again. Bitty seemed drunker in the light, with a flush muddling his freckles and half-lidded eyes. But then again, maybe it was just the lust, because they looked kinda the same on him, honestly, the way he moved like he was swaying to music and his accent turned thick and dripping.

“Did your present come in the mail?” I asked, playing with the hemline of his tank top.

He nodded, and slipped away from my touch to snag the package from under his bed. “Guess I know why I wasn’t supposed to open it,” he smiled wryly, hopping onto his bed with the box in his lap.

I joined him, wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulders. It felt like a crime to not be touching him. “Open it now, if you want.” I leaned around and nibbled on his earlobe. “It’s uh, actually more appropriate than I thought it’d be.”

He gave me a quizzical look at that but used his room key to cut through the packing tape, eyes lighting up when he pulled out the gift; it was a custom apron in Samwell red and white that I’d had embroidered with his name and the title of his vlog. “Oh, honey, thank you!” he breathed excitedly.

“I hoped you’d like it, for when you film and stuff. I guess it goes nicely with Betsy 2.0, huh? I had no idea they were doing that.”  I pulled him closer to my side, feeling his hair brush up against my neck. “I hope it’s not—you vetoed the car thing and, uh—this is good, right?” I was getting a little babbly, so I kissed at his temple to shut myself up.

He sighed happily into my flannel, “I love it, Kent. And Lord, please don’t get that car idea back into your head; that’s _way_ too much to ask from you even if I could explain it to people.”

“I bought my mom a second house for her birthday last year, so really I’d be holding out on you,” I justified wryly. My hand slid down to his inner thigh and I massaged gently, slipping fingers up under his shorts.

His breath hitched a little at the touch, and he turned to set his present neatly on the floor. He moved deliberately, slowly, until he finally looked back at me with a simmering expression. I pressed my forehead against his, watching his eyes, my hand still drifting around under his shorts. My heart was swelling up against my ribs and pounding desperately; it felt like I was falling apart so he could glue me together the way he wanted. “Kenny?” he breathed, and it was a tone I’d heard before.

I shivered with anticipation. “Whatcha thinking, babe?”

His hands were wandering around my body now, lips hovering just far enough away to keep us from closing the gap before he got through what he wanted to say. “I, um—Lord, I’m kind of embarrassed?”

I slipped my hand off his thigh and pulled him into a hug. His hands tightened around my shirt when I reassured, “Babe, I’m never gonna judge you for something you want.” I paused and kissed his cheek. “Except like, maybe don’t ask me to murder anyone? That’s like, a two years and up kinda thing.”

His giggle turned into a snort half-way through, and he continued nervously, “Well it’s not even kinky or anything, I just—,” he lifted his head off my shoulder to meet my gaze again. “If you went back five or six months and told me this was my life—and all that boy’d done was some heavy pettin’ and one handjob—it’s just so much sometimes, that I feel this happy and everything and I want—would you want to top?”

I really shouldn’t have been that surprised by it, considering I’d spent the better part of the past five months jacking off to shared sexual fantasies over Skype. Christ, I’d even fingered him. But it still knocked me just the littlest bit off guard, and I stammered out, “Y-yeah! You—you want that? You…trust me?”

I could tell from his expression that my question made zero percent sense to him. I thought about explaining, but vomiting out three years of sexual history with our (mostly former) mutual crush kind of felt like a boner killer, so I just buried my face against his neck in response to his, “Yes, honey. I love you,” and started pressing kisses against his shoulder like that was the only reason I was there.

I pulled at his tank top to make room for my mouth under his collarbone, kissing tenderly, dragging my tongue against his skin, listening to his soft _“I love you”_ s and answering with my hands, tracing over his body with increasing insistence. He gripped at me, getting a little rougher on my hips, and hitched himself onto my lap, legs wrapped around me. We ground together like that, his body teasing against me in the precise rhythm he always managed to find, kisses growing wetter until we broke away to start ripping off clothes. I was always gone on his fucking perfect lean muscles as soon as I saw them.

“Fuck, babe,” I mumbled into his chest, laying him diagonally across the bed, “you’re so fucking sexy.”

I kissed at his stomach, his hipbones, his thighs, listening to him huff at me every time it seemed like I was moving to his cock and didn’t. I grinned up at him from between his legs and asked, “Where’s your lube, babe?”

His head dropped back to the mattress as he scrunched his nose and tried to remember. “Um— _Lord_ , Kent, I cannot think if you do that to me—try behind the headboard.”

I licked up his cock again, for good measure, and reached my hand behind the bed. “Who almost found it this time?” I teased, started my kissing trail back up at his lips and wandering down lazily. I fumbled with the cap and spread lube over my fingers. I slid one in slowly, deep and determined, my mouth against his side.

“Lardo— _oh_ Lord — she walked in Sunday — _honey, so good_ _—_ night, after—,” he broke off into a whine when I slipped in more fingers, working in and out of him slowly, and wrapped my mouth around his cock. He liked to squirm a little bit against my touch and I was throbbing so hard it almost hurt at the thought of how that would feel around me. His hands were in my hair; he loved taking my stupid hair that I could never get nice enough and fucking it up to hell so it didn’t matter. I loved him for making it not matter.

“Kenny, I’m close—you should—,” I pulled my mouth off slowly, pulling him along the edge before relaxing, feeling him shudder as he held back the orgasm. My fingers slid out after, and I pulled myself up to kiss him, sliding my tongue between his lips.

“You ready, Bits?” I mumbled, my voice husky and maybe a little nervous, like I hadn’t been for sex in a long, long time.

He shifted and pressed his teeth to my earlobe. “Please.”

We’d gotten tested months ago, and we’d agreed on this, but I still felt too-naked without a condom. My fingers twitched a little, ripping open a wrapper that wasn’t there, even as I was spreading lube over my cock and going a little misty at the gentle pleasure of the cooling texture. Bitty was watching me, biting down on the side of his bottom lip, his fingers digging into my arms. I leaned in close because I needed to be near him, the nearest I could fucking manage, and I slowly pressed between his thighs.

He was already loose and slick with lube and I was drowning in him. I could taste him in my lungs; he was better than air and I felt the heels of his feet digging into my lower back because he wanted me to drown. I kissed him as long as I could and I’d been holding my breath the whole time, I think, because my fingers felt numb like after you hyperventilate.

I gasped in air and he was mumbling things to me about how much he loved me, how good I was, and I didn’t think I’d done a single fucking thing in my life good enough to deserve the way he felt. But I was talking too, in breathy little spurts, things like, “ _Fuck_ , babe — so amazing — I love — _fuck_ _—_ you, Bits—Eric—you’re incredible, I—,”

“Say that again,” he moaned, the loudest he’d been all night.

“What— _Jesus, fuck, Christ_ _—_ part?”

“My name—Eric—,” he answered, and he was begging a little desperately, like he didn’t realize I’d give him everything I ever could, “please, say my name again Kenny.”

It was one of those moments where everything kind of shifts just a tiny bit, like when you poke a snow globe and the little flakes flutter just enough so you can tell you were there, and I bucked into him harder, watched him bite into a pillow to keep from crying out. I was sobbing, “Eric Eric _Eric_ _—_ fuck, Christ—Eric you’re incredible—thank you, Eric—thank you—I love you—,”

“ _Kenny_ _—_ _,_ ” he abandoned the pillow to moan, arching his back through an orgasm that tightened him around me.

I thrust him through it softly, planting kisses on his lips, and I tried to whisper, “Eric,” while I came but it was more like a choking sound. I sank onto my forearms when I pulled out and pressed my cheek against his face, panting and gone, so gone on him. He was laughing the giddy, bubbly kind of laugh we both made when we were confused by how happy we were, and I laughed too, the same way, until I thought maybe I should help him clean up a little. So I slipped on my boxers, like that’d make it less incriminating if I ran into someone, and asked where to get a washcloth.

I took a detour to kiss him gently, all over his body, before continuing on my mission. The closest bathroom was actually down the hall (I was pretty sure Bitty’d mentioned he shared it with Ransom and Holster, but my brain was on like, forty percent at best) and I crept through the Haus nervously, because stepping on a loose floorboard wrong was _definitely_ super more likely to wake someone up than the incredible sex we’d just had. Apparently we’d lucked out, though, and I slipped back into the room with a damp cloth, locking the door behind me.

We curled up in bed together, Eric’s arms wrapped around Señor Bun, and okay yeah, the smart thing to do would have been for me to go back to the hotel I’d booked, because I wasn’t exactly in a position to saunter around the Haus tomorrow morning. But I was naked and in love and I’ve never really been good at that risk-reward calculation bullshit anyway, so I spooned him like I had the night we met and fell asleep.

 

~*~

 

“Kent, wake up.” I grumbled a curse word that was probably uncalled for and smashed my face into a pillow. “ _Kent Parson,_ get up right now.”

Okay, yeah, that sounded serious. I pushed up onto my forearms and looked over at Eric, who seemed pretty upset for some reason and my stomach dropped because maybe he regretted everything. “Bits, what—,”

“They’re all awake.”

I squinted at him suspiciously. That seemed pretty fucking unlikely, given my past experiences. But as my brain whirled back up, I realized that there were definitely fucking voices laughing and yelling from downstairs. I groaned, “Fuck, what time is it? What the hell?”

Bits was already dressed (technically re-dressed in last night’s clothes), and he massaged his temples as he explained, “It’s early. They woke up to clean the Haus so I wouldn’t have to. _Bless their hearts,_ the one time those boys try to be helpful.”

I sat up and rubbed his back, pressing my forehead to his shoulder. “Jack down there?” He shook his head. That was good, at least. “So…I _have_ been practicing my backflip.”

He almost laughed, but tutted at me instead, arguing, “I can corral them in the kitchen, maybe, and you can try and head out the back. If that doesn’t work _then_ you can try goin’ down the roof.” He leaned in to kiss me before asking, “Will you meet me downtown for lunch?” I nodded.

I had zero percent confidence in the ability of the entire Haus to stay in one room and also not look through the doorway and also not hear me going down the stairs and out the door, but whatever. I slipped into my clothes, tugged my snapback securely onto my head, and waited for his text. It came a few minutes later and I crept over to the stairs to peek around the wall. Ransom and Holster were leaning against the counter right across from the doorway, and people kept moving around in the room, talking excitedly and flailing their arms. Yeah, okay, this was gonna be a disaster. I snuck back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me, and climbed out the window.

The roof wasn’t really _that_ high off the ground because it jutted out over the first floor, but I still wasn’t really a fan of just jumping off and maybe rolling an ankle. I peered over the edge and figured if I hung down, I could swing my feet onto the railing that wrapped around the front porch, so I edged over to the side of building farthest from the kitchen windows and started to lower myself down.

I was in the middle of angling my feet onto the ledge when someone walked up behind me. “Uh, hi Parson.” My feet slipped and I hung dangling from the shuddering gutter, which really felt like it might take a swan dive any second.

I swiveled my head around; it was Shitty, who was actually pretty high on my list of people I’d prefer to find me escaping a semi-frat house via roof. “Oh, hey Shits. Uh, what’s up?”

“Patrolling for stray lacrosse bros. Er…you, brah?”

I tried to keep my voice casual as I said, “Oh, you know, the usual. Trying not to kill myself on this roof. Super typical shit.” I swung my legs forward and connected solidly with the bannister, slipping my arms around a column for support as I hopped down onto the grass. The silence was pretty fucking awkward.

“So…” Shitty began, his hands resting comfortably at his hips, like they’d be looped through belt loops if he was wearing something besides boxers, “You can feel free to tell me to fuck off, seeing as it’s really none of my fuckin’ business, but…are you the reason why Bitty’s trying to bribe everyone away from the windows or why Jack’s been hiding in his room all morning?”

I hesitated and watched Shitty carefully. His face was open and non-judgmental, his newly short hair fluttered in the May breeze. Bits always said Shitty was his best friend, and the first person he came out to at Samwell. I figured it was still better to tell him to fuck off (except nicer, because Shitty was a good guy) because, you know, _secret_ relationship. I admitted, “Bitty,” instead, and flinched inwardly, waiting to hear any number of the accusations I used to throw at myself. _All you do is hurt people. Don’t you know he’s too good for you? How could you do this to Jack?_

“Oh, cool, bro. Happy for ya,” Shitty said with a shrug. He was smiling under his mustache and just stood there waiting, in case there was anything else I wanted to say.

He’d almost turned all the way around to leave by the time I blurted, “Look, please don’t—we’ve been hiding it ‘cause—and it’s zero percent cool of me to ask you this, like, I get Jack’s your best friend and if you can’t keep it from him—but the way he’s talked before…he’ll think I’m with Eric because of him, I think, like to get back at him or shit like that, and it has _nothing_ to fucking do with that, okay? I just—we’re—I just love Eric. That’s what this is, Shitty. Please don’t tell Jack, not until—just, not yet.”

I tilted my head back against the porch column, letting it thunk against my skull a little harder than necessary. Shitty shrugged again, and told me, “Look Parson, you beautiful motherfucker, like I said before this is none of my fuckin’ business anyway. It’s really cool you trusted me enough to tell me about you and Bitty and that’s great. It’s not my place to go tell Jack, though for the record you’re probably not giving the guy enough credit.” I nodded and closed my eyes for a deep breath. He added, “Bitty’s gonna know we talked though, right? That sly motherfucker needs to get chirped for this.”

I laughed, a nervous-tinged laugh that probably came out a little hysterical. “Yeah, ‘course Shits. I don’t lie to my boyfriends ‘til _after_ they dump me.”

The joke fell a little flat but Shitty smiled at me anyway. “Cool, brah. I’ll see ya around, maybe?” He clasped me on the shoulder and headed back towards the Haus.

“Yeah, uh, thanks Shitty.” He waved at me and slipped back inside, shouting about having a secure perimeter or something.

I shook my head and took the long way to my car, which I’d parked around the block. Bitty sent me the address of a good lunch spot and slipped out of the Haus to meet me there. He didn’t really care about Shitty knowing we were together; he honestly seemed excited to have someone to talk about the relationship with, since I had my entire team for that (not that they didn’t give absolute shit dating advice, the fuckers). We talked about maybe coming out to the rest of the Haus next semester, or over the summer, even, if Jack seemed like he was doing okay with the Falconers already.

And I could picture all that, you know? I could see us, curled up on that fucking disgusting green couch, Eric on my lap so he wouldn’t have to touch it, watching a musical with Holster the night before a game against Boston. I could see him snapchatting me in the kitchen, wearing my Aces jersey and the apron I gave him. I could see us, just out and living our weird ass lives, and I wanted it more than I wanted a third Stanley Cup.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me [on Tumblr <3](http://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)


	2. that's how I wanna go

I hopped out of the shower and drew my initials in the steam on the mirror. Kit was scratching at the door; she always got offended when I locked her out of the bathroom, but the one time I’d tried to let her in while I showered, she’d hopped in the tub and left bloody scratches all over my legs when she figured out _holy shit it’s wet in here._ Really this was best for everyone. I dried off my hair and wrapped the towel around my waist, pulling out my laptop in my bedroom. It was almost time to Skype Bitty. Actually, it was technically time to Skype Bitty half an hour ago, but it was Jack’s and Shitty’s graduation today so I figured he was just running late, hence my detour in the shower.

His Skype lit up and I grinned. I’d considered flying out for the graduation, but I wasn’t sure how Jack would take that and I wasn’t selfish enough to risk ruining the day for him; I’d settle for the recount from Bitty…who was taking longer than normal to call me. Normally he took a few seconds to straighten up the bed and everything, but it was like he was staring at the screen just…waiting? I shrugged and called him myself.

I could tell something was wrong right away, and it’s not because I’m boyfriend of the fucking year or anything. No, it’s just it was pretty obvious. Eric’s face was red and blotchy, his shoulders shaking and face tilted down towards his lap. He was still crying. I scrambled, “Fuck, babe, what’s wrong?” And yeah, if I closed my eyes I saw Zimms passed out on a bench, and it took everything I had to not panic.

“Kenny, I—I’m sorry, I wanted to—,” he was hiccupping back sobs, and brought a hand up to cover his face. “I’m sorry—this isn’t—Jack kissed me, and, I just— _fuck_ _—_ ,”

Well, it’d been a good run. I knew what happened next, I did, because it was really just par for the fucking course, right? Jack was better than me; I’d known that since we were kids, and he’d be better for Eric, he would. He was funny, and gentle, and on the right side of the country. Jack was the one who deserved this, needed someone who loved him and took care of him and let him know he was _good enough_. It all just made sense. They made sense. It was okay. Someone had to be okay. I was always okay. Really, the hardest part was watching how much it was hurting Bitty to leave. I’d tried so hard to be good for him, to fix anything that hurt. I could do this too.

“Date Jack,” I said, and I swear my voice didn’t crack, not at all, “You should be with him, Bits, not me. He’s—Zimms is great, so fucking great, and you’d be really good together.” I was barreling through, and I could hear him saying my name, trying to get me to stop, _Kent Parse Kent Parson Kent Kent_ , but I couldn’t stop because I wasn’t brave enough to say this twice, “And I’ll be okay Bits, alright? I’m good at that, and I have the Aces, and maybe we’ll be friends, and I love you, Eric, and you should be happy and Zimms can do that better—,”

“ _Kenny!_ ” Well, that one shut me up. I stared at him blankly, balling up the comforter in my hands to keep them from shaking. Bitty stared back, making sure I wasn’t going to run my mouth off again while he tried to talk. His jaw was clenched in a tense line, and he’d stopped crying though his eyes were still wet. “I’m not leaving you, so you can hush up about that.”

“But, Eric…”

He waved his hands at me in exasperation, “Stop it, Kenny! Stop actin’ like I don’t love you. _I love you_. And yes, telling Jack I’m seein’ someone was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do, because I do still have feelin’s for him. But you—Kenny, you really think I’d leave you? You think I’m not in this every bit as much as you are?”

I tried to say something but I couldn’t. I wasn’t sure what the words would be, other than _ten pills and an ambulance and ‘Can you help me, Kenny?’_ I thought maybe I’d throw up, actually, if I tried to open my mouth just then. It was all I could see. All I could hear. I was eighteen and scared and I never did the right thing and I was scared and it was all my fault. No one had ever figured out it was all my fault.

“Date both of us,” I told him, maybe five years later, and when he looked up at me in shock I repeated, “Date both of us. If Jack goes for it, which, I know—knew him pretty well, and yeah, I think he would, yeah.” I felt a little like the crazy scientist who accidentally created the monster at the beginning of the movie, but also thought maybe this was the best idea I’d ever had. “Look, Bits, you love me and you—I dunno, maybe you love Jack too, or you just like him a lot, but you’d be with him if not for me, right?” He nodded numbly. “So be with him and be with me too. I—we already have this fucked long-distance thing right? So like, just date Jack too. I’d be cool with that, hundred percent.”

He bit his lip for a few moments before answering, “I think…I’d like that. But if—wouldn’t it be better if we were all together? Just, really all dating each other. Not just me being in the middle of this.”

I exhaled heavily when I realized I hadn’t breathed in a while. It suddenly took too much to be sitting still, so I stood up and started pacing back and forth, my towel shedding to the ground. “I mean, maybe, but I don’t think that’d work out, do you? I mean, Zimms and I—we were broken, Bits, really fucking broken. I don’t think—do you think we could move past that? Be _good_ for each other?”

“I…don’t know. But we could—,”

A voice panted from the doorway, “Bittle, I wanted to apologize, I—,”

 

And this was really not how I wanted to have this brought up with Jack. Like, I can’t imagine a worse fucking way actually, than him walking in right after he’d kissed my boyfriend, who was still half-crying, with me chilling naked on the other side of a laptop screen, unless he’d actually walked in on us fucking. But actually like, at least then you could go, “Hey, wanna jump into this thing and also date both of us maybe forever? We have plenty of lube!” which wasn’t even an option here.

Bitty turned and just stared at him, really, and I probably should have killed the video or at least dropped out of frame so I wasn’t so fucking naked but instead my instinct was to grab a pillow off the bed and hold it in front of my crotch like in those shitty comedy movies. I tried to sputter out something that sounded like Jack’s name, but he was already cursing intensely in Quebecois, adding in English, “Fuck—you two—Parse is who—,” and then he switched back to French that I could barely follow it was so fast and slurred but it sounded like, “ _can’t do this can’t breathe_ ” over and over again. I watched his muscles tighten, and everything start to tremble.

The words got breathier and harder to understand until they were sucked up entirely by his hyperventilation, but I was past that in my head. _Ten pills and an ambulance and ‘Can you help me, Kenny?’ Ten pills and an ambulance and_ _—_ no. I could do this. I had to do this. I could help him. I took in one deep breath and then I called to Bitty, who looked terrified. “Eric, look at me. Hey—this is a panic attack. You seen this before? No? It’s okay, I have and we can help, alright?”

He nodded. I wrapped my towel back around my waist and smiled. I kept my voice as even as I could, saying, “Great, alright, give Jack the laptop. Hey, Zimms, hold up the computer while I talk to you, alright? No, up higher—arms up high—great Zimms, perfect, yeah. This fucking sucks, huh? Yeah but you can do it. Can you walk around? Walking’s good.”

Jack muttered something in French and started pacing. I kept talking, “You don’t take a pill anymore, right?” He shook his head. “Okay, great. You don’t need it, Zimms. You can do this. Breathe, yeah? Great, Zimms, great. Hey, stay with us, Zimms. You want Bitty to touch you? Yeah? Just his arm or his back, Bits; let him know you’re there. We’re here, Zimms. Breathe, yeah? Great. You wanna talk to us?” He shook his head. “You want me to talk more?”

“No, the same.”

“Great, great Zimms. Okay, you want Bitty to talk too?” He nodded. “Okay, yeah. Wanna hear a story? Maybe you’ve heard this story but—breathe, yeah? Stay here. Great—I like the Chowder-ruins-the-pie story. Yeah? Let’s hear it, Bits.”

“So, um, Chowder wanted to bake an apology pie for Farmer, and he asked for my help. We found out her favorite fruit was peaches, and Lord do I have a good peach pie recipe I don’t get to break out that often.”

“What’s the pie for, Zimms?”

“A-apology.”

“Yeah, great. Hey, keep breathing alright? Nice and slow, like me—yeah, great.”

“You’d think bein’ from Georgia I’d make it all the time, but would you know half my family is allergic? Hard to believe, I know, it’s the Bittle family curse. I don’t have it though, and I was real excited to make this dang pie—,”

“What’s the family curse, Zimms?”

“Peach allergy.”

“—so we went out to murder Stop-n-Shop to get all our stuff, except I’ll be damned if I put peaches in my pie from a _Stop-n-Shop_ so we borrowed Lardo’s car to drive up to the fancy grocery store—,”

The panic attack lasted three minutes which meant I _still_ had no idea what happened to the rolling pin, because that fucking story is like twenty minutes long when Bitty really gets into it. But that was okay, because Jack drifted back into himself and the laptop camera stopped shaking and he was saying, “ _I’m okay Kenny, yeah, I’m okay_ ” and he might’ve even smiled at me a little bit. He always seemed a little haunted after, like he’d brought something back with him from wherever he went during the panic attack. We’d never talked about it.

“Hey, yeah, I—welcome back Zimms. Is it—I’ll be right back, okay?”

I killed my mic and walked around the corner into my kitchen. I sank to the floor and put my head between my knees. I sobbed _once, twice,_ and choked back the third one, swallowing down the shudder that wracked through my body. Then I walked back into the room.

Jack was sitting hunched over on the bed, Bitty next to him with an arm around his shoulder. Bitty needed to leave for the airport in forty-five minutes. Jack was probably supposed to be somewhere with his family by now. I had nowhere to be, at least. Bits looked up when I said I was back, and started nervously, “Um, so…we have some things to talk about.”

“We, uh, don’t have to do this all now, Jack,” I cut in, “I mean, Christ, you just had—,”

“No, Kenny, it’s alright. I need—I shouldn’t run away from this.” He didn’t look nearly as confident as he sounded, and honestly he sounded like a fucking wreck.

Bitty was rubbing his temples and trying not to start crying again. I asked, “Okay, Zimms, but—can you—before we say anything, I really feel like it’s better to know what about all this triggered the—,” and it occurred to me at that exact moment I’d never actually said the words _to him_ , in all the years we had together, “panic attack. If you—if it was something specific.”

Zimms looked up at me and his eyes were glassy, but not the kind where he was drifting out of touch again. Just the kind where he might cry. “I—well—I got half-way back to my family and thought, ‘I need to apologize to Bittle, for making him so uncomfortable,’ and I wanted to make sure we’d still be alright, friends. And so I came back, and I was—,” he bit his lip and looked over at Bitty, who nodded at him, “I’m scared to leave here, Samwell, and I walked in to see—and all I could think was that I’d really lost everyone. You’re together and I’m—,” he threw up his hands helplessly and fell silent.

“Zimms…”

Bitty looked up at the camera. I nodded back. “Jack, what if—what we were talking about, before you came in, was actually—what if we all dated? Kent and I, we both care about you and I’d like to be with you too, honey, so…”

Jack looked at the laptop and then at Bitty, who was smiling with warmth, but timidly. He asked, “So, you mean polyamory? Shitty has a PowerPoint.” He seemed hesitantly open.

I spoke up, “Y-yeah, but if you didn’t—you and I don’t have to…be involved with each other. I—like, that might be hard, and if you wanted to just be with Bitty—,”

“Is that what you want?” Jack cut me off, his eyes brighter than before, less afraid.

I hesitated, and then warned, “I’d probably fuck it all to hell.”

Bitty laughed softly. It felt foreign. I’d missed it. “He means ‘no.’ He wants to be with you.”

Kit hopped on the bed, attracted to the drama, apparently. I nuzzled her head. “Yeah, what Bits says.”

“I’d want that too,” Jack admitted, looking between the both of us again. “I’d want it for real. Both of you. I think we can do it, Kenny.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, bewildered. “I—just, fuck—we should—,”

Jack’s phone rang. He looked down at it and sighed, “Crisse, they’ll kill me if I fuck this dinner reservation for them. I need—I have to go, but I want this, okay? I want this.” He turned to Bitty, wavered for a second, and then pulled him into a hug. “Kenny, can I—,”

“Yeah, Zimms. Christ knows I fuckin’ want to,” I grinned, and watched as they pressed their foreheads together and leaned into a gentle kiss. It was weird how natural that felt. Not just the kiss itself, which looked fucking straight out of a movie, but watching, being a part of that moment.

Jack climbed out of the bed and headed for the door. He turned around and promised, “I’ll text you—well, um—I don’t have Kenny’s number, but—,” he laughed nervously.

I laughed too, admitting, “Yeah, I deleted yours too, Zimms.”

Bitty rolled his eyes and muttered something that definitely sounded like, “These boys.” He stood up and touched Jack’s arm, assuring us, “I’ll start a group text. Now you head out, hun, and I’ll—we’ll see you soon.”

They kissed again and then Jack was gone. Bitty walked back over to the bed in a haze, sitting on the edge gingerly. He was only halfway in the frame. I cleared my throat and asked, “Are you doing okay, babe?”

“Hm?” He curled all the way in the bed and pulled the laptop up on his lap, smiling faintly. “Yeah, hun, I just—are you?”

“Yep, I’m doing fine, yeah,” I told him, and pressed a kiss to Kit’s forehead. She shrank away and hopped off the bed, as expected. “Jack’s panic attack was—there’s been worse. And I think, well, Jack seems open to the whole thing and maybe we can do it, you know?” He nodded. “So yeah, I’m…excited, actually. But you’re sure you’re—,”

“I’m great, Parse,” he interrupted.

I could tell he was lying for two reasons. One: he never really called me Parse anymore; I was Kent now. Two: “You know when you’re hiding something, you do this sexy fuckin’ thing where you pull at your bottom lip, right?”

He looked up at the camera and moved his hand away from his face slowly. “Kent, I—it’s really alright.”

“Eric, please,” I pushed, “You shouldn’t—we can’t make this work if you can’t talk to me.” He nodded, but looked down at his lap and didn’t answer. “Was it—like, I could tell you were freaked out and trust me, I get that. Jesus fucking Christ, the first time Zimms had one we both thought he was dying.”

“It isn’t—I mean, that whole thing was awful, but you were so _good_ through it honey, and it just made me think—,” he cut off abruptly and set the laptop down in front of him to draw his knees up to his chest. “I—um, I just…I’m scared, I guess, that if you two are together again, you won’t need me anymore?”

“ _Fuck_ no,” I blurted immediately, and it took me a second to process and realize, okay yeah, that was actually true, good. He looked up at me then, really looked, and his expression brightened a little. “Bits, I love you like, so fucking much I can’t even — I’d never — I love you, and I’m sure I’ll love Jack again and maybe we’ll even do it right this time, but — you were never a replacement, okay? You’re just _you_ and fucking incredible and I don’t wanna lose that. And like—okay, so I’m talking a lot and I feel like maybe I should stop and you could uh, say something?”

He laughed softly and leaned back against the pillows. “Thank you, darlin’. I love you, and I know you do too. I was just feeling a little insecure.”

I nodded. “It’s been a lot today, for everyone. And like, I’ll say it a billion fucking times if you want: I love you, Bits.”

“Lord, I love you too, honey,” he answered brightly, with a real smile, too. “Now, you’re gonna make me miss my flight if I don’t get going, but I—oh, I better set up that group text!”

“Yeah, don’t forget to text our hot new boyfriend, babe.”

“Oh, hush, I wasn’t gonna forget.”

**_Bits (7:07 pm):_  ** _Hi boys <3_

 

~*~

 

I lay sprawled across the laps of three Aces players, my head rested comfortably on Swoops’ thigh. The TV was blaring _The Bachelorette_ and half the room was arguing over which guy should get the last rose, buzzed on wine and beer. When it cut to commercial, Jeff poked me and asked, “Hey, Parser, what’re we gonna do for your birthday? ‘Cause I watched some YouTube videos and I’m _pretty_ sure I could do fireworks without setting anything on fire this year.”

“Oh, uh, about that, yeah…” I trailed, looking up from my phone. “I’m sorta spending it in Georgia with Eric?”

I was greeted with disappointed booing and groans. My birthday being on the Fourth of July had turned the whole thing into a pretty big party every year. “Why can’t Bitty come up here?”

“Well…” I hid my face under my phone, “Hey, you guys know how I came out after we won the Cup and we just like, kept partying and no one made a big fucking deal out of it?”

The room chorused with various nods and cautious agreement.

“Uh, can we pretend we just won another one?”

Swoops goaded, “Shit Parser, what’d you do?”

“Bet he killed someone.”

I sighed, “No, I—,”

“Crippling cocaine addiction.”

“Eloped with Bitty. I’m offended, Parser, I wanted to be the flower girl.”

“Quitting the NHL to become a professional curler, eh?”

“I second the coke addiction.”

“ _Guys_ ,” I flailed my arms and smacked Swoops in the head. Super accidentally. “I’m—fuck, okay so—I should’ve gotten you all way drunker—Bitty and I are dating Jack Zimmermann? And we’re maybe telling his family over the holiday.”

Someone paused the TV. Stenzy tilted his head to the side and asked, “Wait, you’re all dating each other?” I nodded, looking around the room uncomfortably. I thought about moving off the guys’ laps, but there wasn’t really a dignified way to accomplish it. “So…you’re _still_ with Bitty, right? And he’ll still bake for us when he’s in town?”

“Yeah, it’s like—,”

“Holy _shit_ , Parser, how’d you manage to land _two_ dudes way out of your league?”

“Hey, I—,”

The room erupted into a wave of chirping I barely survived, which really was the best way that could’ve gone.

At some point Jeff pulled together the room to discuss something more serious, if his tone was anything to go by. “Okay, okay everyone, we have a couple unresolved questions, yeah? Parser- Swoops, stop fucking with Parser; this is serious.”

I snatched my cap back and fit it snugly onto my head. “Uh, yeah, what’s up Jeff?” I’d been prepared for some actual concerns about the whole situation, seeing as it was far from fucking traditional.

“So, we’ve got like, three bets running that are kinda fucked up by all this and I’d like some input?”

I groaned dramatically but smirked a little anyway. “Yep, fire away Jeff, yeah.”

Jeff pulled out his phone. “Okay so firstly: Parser gets back together with Jack. This counts as a ‘yes,’ right?”

“How’d you even know about—okay, whatever, yes, and fuck you guys.”

“Great, okay, so secondly, and I feel like this one might just be invalidated: Bitty is The OneTM.” Yes, I swear, he said the fucking “tm” and everything.

I tried to ignore the whistles and kissing noises, hiding under my phone again to avoid getting chirped for blushing. I stumbled over the answer, “Um—okay so like—that doesn’t really _work_ anymore, yeah. But also—wow, fuck all of you—,”

“Two isn’t enough for you, eh, Parser?”

Again, hitting Swoops in the face was _zero percent_ on purpose. “If you wanna keep the bet, just fucking include Jack, I guess. Why is this even a fucking thing, guys?”

“There are _four whole months_ of the year when neither _The Bachelor_ nor _The Bachelorette_ air, Parser. We have _literally_ nothing better to do.”

I mean, there were worse ways a bunch of professional hockey players could respond to their captain coming out as bisexual and then polyamorous, so what the hell, I guess.

“Okay, okay, was that it?”

Jeff cackled, “So, uh, there’s—ha—one more we _might_ be able to resolve.” I wasn’t really concerned until he tried to casually shrink behind Makey, one of our biggest d-men. “The bet’s—ha—it’s: Parser is a kinky ass motherfucker. Does dating two dudes count as kinky?”

“…Fuck—,”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘fuck all of us,’ we get it Parser.”

I rolled my eyes at them all. “Leave the bet open.”

“ _Not cool_ , Parser. This bet is literally years old. We need _answers._ ”

“We could call Bitty,” Swoops threatened, and suddenly lunged for my phone. I smacked him away and rolled onto the floor in the process.

“That—ow—won’t work.” I perched on the coffee table.

Stenzy smirked, “So is Jack the weak link then? Because I’m sure Swoops has a contact or two in Canada still.”

“Oh, I could definitely get a line to Zimmermann, yeah.”

I was pretty confident they were just fucking around at that point, so I ignored them to text Bitty and Zimms.

 **_Kenny (3:03 pm):_ ** _Team took it well, weird bets on my sex life aside_

 **_Kenny (3:03 pm):_ ** _Tell them nothing if they ask_

Bitty responded with a string of laugh-crying emoji.

 **_Zimms (3:05 pm):_ ** _They bet about your life? That’s weird._

 **_Kenny (3:06 pm):_ ** _Wish I was kidding babe_

Swoops kicked my shin to get my attention, which was really fucking uncalled for. He asked quietly, “So, what’re you gonna do about coming out?”

I shrugged. “We’re starting with Mom and Izzy. They’ve already met Bits over Skype and they’ll probably be cool with Jack too, so it’s like a warmup. Then we go down to Georgia, which could be a shitshow, man.”

“Yeah?” Swoops furrowed his brow in concern.

“I mean, I dunno. Eric’s parents don’t even know he’s gay. Zimms is kinda iffy on coming out at all—I’m kinda surprised he was okay with me telling you guys so soon, actually, but no one’s outed _me_ yet, so I guess — anyway, so we’ll tell them about me first in case, you know, it’s a fucking disaster. If that doesn’t give everyone a collective fuckin’ stroke we’ll finish ‘em off with the poly thing.” I smirked defensively, and Swoops just nodded. “Then, the Zimmermanns already _kinda_ know ‘cause of, um, how the situation unfolded, but we might meet them like, officially. That’s all the family shit. We’re still figuring out how much to tell their teammates, but whether or not Jack comes out to them, we move on to the media with me and Eric.”

“That’s, uh, a detailed itinerary, eh?”

I smiled fondly, playing with the phone in my hands. “Zimms like plans.”

Swoops accepted that, and asked, “So, you’re definitely coming _out_ , out?”

“Yup, Eric and I are, yeah. We talked about it a lot and—,” I laughed, “well the first out NHL player is gonna be a shit ton of press, and Jack doesn’t really want that, maybe ever.” Swoops nodded. “Maybe, if the climate changes, we could all be out together, but—us two are ready, you know? We’d been talking about it since before we even got together with Jack—I mean, my sexuality is already the worst fucking kept secret of the league anyway, right?”

Swoops kicked me again good-naturedly. “I had you pegged from day two, eh? But it’s a lot of pressure, Parser.”

I shrugged again. “My career can handle it. Someone’s gotta fucking take the hit, right? I’m tired of hiding and I can help other people not have to.”

“Fuck yeah, man,” he answered in support. “Hey, you want us to all paint up rainbow-y and shit when you do it? Picture it, eh? Kent fucking Parson coming out with like ten naked hockey guys dancing behind him, painted in pride colors, maybe singing—,”

“I appreciate your fucking enthusiasm, you fuckin’ weirdo,” I laughed, “I’ll keep you posted.”

 

~*~

 

We celebrated my birthday a few days early in New York (the Bittles were pretty hell bent on Eric being home for Independence Day—I guess it’s a big deal in the South—and we needed them in a good mood) with my mom and sister, Izzy. I picked Eric up from the airport and met Jack, who had driven up from Providence in a rental car, outside the house. He pulled us both into a tight hug, dropping his duffel bag to the ground.

Izzy made a beeline for Jack as soon as we got through the door, squealing louder than should really be possible from a seventeen year-old, “ _Zimmie_ , I haven’t seen you in so long!” Jack laughed and twirled her around effortlessly. Izzy had been a child when Jack and I were teenagers; she’d always adored him.

Mom focused on Eric, reaching out to shake his hand and greeting, “Hi, Eric. It’s so nice to meet you in person, sweetheart.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s mine, Ms. Parson—,”

“Please, call me Nicole—,”

“Oh, um, Nicole—Kent’s told me so many wonderful things about your family.”

Mom laughed, “Likewise. Every time he calls it’s all we hear. I swear, he hasn’t talked so much about anyone since—,” she cut herself off and glanced at Jack guiltily, who had heard and was smiling softly, not upset by the slip and not sure if he should pretend to be.

“Well, I hope Kent mentioned I’m a baker, because I’d _love_ to make y’all a pie,” Bitty smoothed in effortlessly, flashing a charming smile and leaving me with his suitcase as he was led into the kitchen.

“He should go into PR,” I muttered to Jack, who chuckled and ruffled Izzy’s hair.

“I hear there’s a guest bedroom, eh? Can you show me where to put my bags?” My sister zipped upstairs with Jack in tow, and I followed behind with Bitty’s suitcase. Despite me buying this house for them after I’d already moved out to Vegas, Mom had still made a bedroom for me. My juniors’ trophies lined a shelf and pictures from my childhood hung on the walls. I left both my and Eric’s things there and joined the others down in the kitchen.

Eric was already hard at work on a pie, rambling off a story to my mom as he went. Izzy was ruining her appetite with popcorn, as usual, and grilling Jack about the past seven years of his life. I leaned against the counter, smirking. Bitty caught my gaze and winked; I winked back and rescued Jack from the hurricane that was my sister, detouring her into talking about colleges so he wouldn’t have to answer so many questions. He smiled appreciatively and bumped his knuckles against my thigh, just slightly enough that no one saw.

Later that night, I lay sprawled on the couch, my feet draped on Izzy’s lap. Mom curled in a recliner chair with a cup of tea, watching the news idly, glancing over at Bitty and Jack who were sharing the loveseat, their feet touching casually on the floor.

 **_Kenny (9:03 pm):_ ** _Now?_

 **_Zimms (9:03 pm):_ ** _Sure, Kenny._

Bits answered typically, with kissing emoji and thumbs up signs. I cleared my throat nervously. “Hey, Mom? Izzy?”

“What is it honey?” Mom asked, turning the volume down on the TV and pressing her lips against her mug.

“Um, I—shit—,”

“Language, honey.”

“Sorry, Mom. I’m…not just dating Eric. We’re dating Jack, too. That’s why he’s here. And I know maybe that’s—,”

Izzy knocked my feet to the ground and leapt over to Jack, provoking a shocked squeak from Bitty, who leaned away to avoid her flailing arms. “I _knew_ it, I _knew_ you’d end up together.”

Yeah, neither of us had inherited Mom’s reasonableness or tact. “Well, that’s…” my mom trailed, searching for a good response and I tensed, suddenly very alone on the couch, “better than you bringing your poor ex-boyfriend along while we meet your _new_ boyfriend.” I laughed with relief. “Honestly, honey, I thought I’d have to slap some sense into you after these sweet boys went to bed. How _insensitive_.”

“Oh, I would’ve done that myself,” Eric assured her, standing to put distance between himself and my very emotional sister. He settled next to me on the couch and I wrapped an arm around him.

“Well, you be sure to do that if he ever needs it, sweetheart,” she told him with a wink, and then turned back to me. “And, honey, I’m honestly not sure I’ll ever _really_ understand the appeal of this — this situation, you know, but if you’re all happy and support each other — Izzy _please_ leave Jack alone—then I wish you the best. I love you so much, Kent.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

 

~*~

 

It took almost eighteen hours before we were left alone. Mom was at work and Izzy had just darted out the door to meet her boyfriend for a movie date. I watched out the window to make sure she’d really left before beckoning my boyfriends upstairs, hands shaking with anticipation. We’d being fooling around over Skype (which is a little clumsy with three people) but this was the first time we’d be all together in person since we got together. I was hungry for it, wanted to know what it was really like to have them both in my bed, touching me, touching each other.

We all sat on the bed, Bitty reclined against me and Jack leaned up on the pillows, his hand on my thigh. For a minute or two we stayed just like that, until Bitty stretched a little bit so he could rub his ass up along my crotch and I gripped his hips in response. He whipped around and caught my mouth in a kiss, his tongue slipping between my lips. He ground against me softly, little squirming motions that could have been accidents but weren’t. Jack gasped softly and tightened his grip on my thigh, massaging gently.

I broke away for air and nudged him forward, murmuring, “Why don’t you show Zimms how fucking good you taste, Bits?”

I was half-hard already when Bitty crawled over to Jack, climbing on top of him and licking into his mouth. Jack’s hand brushed up and down against my leg, teasing under my shorts. His other hand flew up to rest on Bitty’s ass, pulling him tighter into their kiss and squeezing gently; I heard the start of Bitty’s whine that got swallowed up into Jack’s mouth, bouncing around between tongues and teeth and lips. I rubbed a palm against my shorts and bit into my lip. They looked _made_ for each other, Bitty slipping against all the crooks of Jack’s thick muscle, his pouty lips enveloping thinner ones, their moans and little sounds weaving together as Bitty rutted.

“I guess, um—,” Bitty laughed breathily, his forehead pressed against Jack’s, “well, you and me have some catching up to do, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack’s voice was low and husky. “We do, eh Bitty?”

“Well, Kenny and I’ve done most things, and Lord, I’m sure _you_ and Kenny’ve done even more—,”

Jack turned to look at me suddenly; I tilted my head and he nodded. I cut in, “Not, uh—not everything, Bits.” The hand on my thigh was warm but hesitant. I smirked at Jack reassuringly. “Zimms never bottomed.”

“Oh,” Bitty breathed, and his eyes flicked over to me and I saw that he understood, now, what the night at Samwell had meant to me. I could hear it replaying in his head, the “ _You…trust me?”_ and “ _thank you, Eric_ _—_ _thank you_ _—_ _,_ ” and the way I couldn’t breathe, and he looked a little like he was in pain for me, but I smiled at him and he answered with a soft one of his own. He turned back to Jack, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek, and asked, “Is that—do you want to, honey?”

“I—,” Zimms looked at me again and this time I was the one who nodded, encouraging his, “yes.” I brushed my fingers against his elbow, leaving the gentle contact there like I was holding him upright. He turned to me and kissed my temple, maybe an apology. Then he looked back at Bitty and kissed an invitation.

They stripped down in light touches and kisses, Bitty pressing harder into everything, pushing, lifting something to life. Jack cradled him like he could turn to dust and I laughed, feeling awkward in my own clothes and stripping to my boxers, because Bitty was impossible to crumble.

I’d always dreamed of ripping Jack apart. I fantasized about it, jacked off to it desperately at night just hours after he’d fucked me to pieces in a hotel room and left my come all over the sheets. I came with desperate sobs to the idea of wrecking him, feeling him tremble underneath me and beg for more.

Bitty disassembled him slowly. He took little pieces and set them away to the side so we could find them again later. I watched him finger Zimms slowly, so gently, and I knew how those fingers felt but relearned it through Jack’s face, the way he bit his lip and moaned into the crook of Eric’s fingers. Jack was on his back and I pulled his head into my lap to stroke his hair as Bitty slid his fingers out and asked if Jack was ready. I felt Zimms vibrating with anticipation as he nodded, tossing the lube back to Bitty, and _fuck_ if it didn’t almost kill me right then with how incredible it was to watch Eric roll a condom on and push inside him.

It was slow and incredible and tender. I played with Jack’s hair and whispered to him, “You’re so good, Zimms, so good, you look amazing, so good, God, fuck, you’re so sexy like this Zimms, so perfect for Eric, so fucking good—,” and shivered whenever he moaned. Bitty sped up a little, his teeth pulling against his bottom lip, and Jack arched up his back. His head tilted and our eyes met, his pupils blown out black with little rings of ice on the edges.

Jack fucked in French. He muttered and growled things that Bitty couldn’t make out, would probably be hard to understand even in English, but that tumbled against my chest as old memories. _Fuck, Zimms, you feel so good I can barely speak English right now. What’re you saying?_ I leaned against the headboard and tightened my fingers in his hair. “He says ‘harder,’ Bits, ‘fuck him harder.’”

Jack turned his head and muffled his moans into my thigh as Bitty complied. I felt Jack’s shoulders rocking against my legs with the force now, and he was touching himself, still slurring his French into my skin. It deserved to be tattooed there.

I picked my murmuring back up again, praising, “So good, Zimms, so perfect, you’re incredible, you’re beautiful—,” and he moaned louder, his teeth pressing against my thigh in an almost-bite, louder and louder until he came on his stomach and the tension fell from his body like an old skin.

“Oh, honey, I—,” Eric cut off into a deep whine and I knew he was coming too, had seen the way his nose scrunched and his words evaporated countless times. He flopped onto the bed in a daze, fumbling for my hand. I laced our fingers and squeezed. Leaned against the pillows, I shut my eyes and stroked myself through my boxers lazily, letting them soak in the glow.

Jack recovered first, which I expected. He sat up and turned around to look at me properly, his eyes bright and roving my body. “Kenny,” he whispered my name warmly, like it needed to be protected, “let me take care of you.” _Fuck._ I nodded. Jack leaned into me and pressed our lips together.

 

You ever had one of those dreams that you know you’ve been through before? It’s like déjà vu except an entire existence, where you’re watching all this weird fucking shit except it’s the same dream as like, the time you fell asleep on some high schooler’s couch six years ago, so you just _know_ there’s a tiny deer hiding under that mushroom, right? But how could you know, because how could anything so perfect and fucking bizarre happen twice?

 

That was kissing Zimms again. And I mean for real, not the desperate begging of Epikegster or the fake-promise of not-goodbye at a rehab facility in Maine. No, pressed up against a headboard, back arching towards God or at least away from hell, one hand on a perfect bare ass and the other laced through Eric Bittle’s fingers, kissing Zimms again like re-discovering the wheel. He was thick, broad muscle that could swallow me whole and soft lips that were afraid to be strong until I reminded him, “I like it when you hurt me a little,” and he sank against me all at once in a heap of weight and teeth. Bitty was a crackle of fire that spread outwards, warm and hungry and searching until it burned right through and you were ash. Jack was dynamite laced all around your veins, starting with a tingle that nipped at your fingertips until all at once you were dead.

I felt him leave bruises on my hips and thighs and sink his mouth in a trail of hickeys down my chest, bursting into something we might have been afraid of if we were younger or older or anything besides what we were, and I knew I was talking, I was always talking, except my voice was swallowed up by the sound of Jack Zimmermann sucking my cock like he wanted me to beg him to stop.

Bitty was listening to me, I knew, because he fucking loved how I babbled. So he heard the, “Oh God oh fuck Zimms I missed you _I missed you_ fuck fuck oh God you’re incredible _Jack_ _—_ ,” that I was pretty sure I was saying, and squeezed back against my hand while he pressed kisses against Jack’s shoulder blades. He was watching my face over Jack’s back, eyes still a little glazed from his own orgasm, drinking up the love and sex and sweat. I thought about how I would kill for him, maybe, and that might’ve made it out of my mouth because Eric chuckling, “I don’t think you’ll have to, darlin’,” was what I heard while I came between Jack’s lips.

“ _Crisse_ , Kenny,” Jack laughed, pulling up next to me and flopping on the bed, “I’d almost forgotten the way you sound.”

Bitty chirped, “Loud as hell?” affectionately, curling up between us.

“You still sound like you’re about to cry when you come.” Jack rolled onto his side to look at me with a wistful smile.

“Only when he’s thinkin’ of you,” Eric added, not bitter, just observing, “I learned to tell the difference.” He and I laughed at that, spent and giddy, and Jack smiled a little broader, maybe chuckling slightly too. There was a warm aura floating around the room. I thought if I could close my eyes, maybe I could reach out and grab it between my fingers. We’d wrap it around us and just fucking live there forever.

 

~*~

 

“Can’t sleep, Zimms?” I whispered that night, tilting my head upwards. Bitty was curled against Jack’s other side, cheek pressed against his chest and mouth open just a little, so you could glimpse teeth. I was on my back, my head nestled up near Jack’s shoulder. His arm was weaved under my neck and settled over my chest.

“No, I still get antsy sometimes,” he answered, tracing circles around my skin with his fingertips, “You?”

I checked my watch. “S’only eleven in Vegas.”

“Ah.” Jack fell silent for a while, changing to swirls and other shapes with his hand. Then: “I always missed you, too. I never said it.”

I nudged my nose against his shoulder. “It’s okay. We—a lot went wrong between us, huh?”

“Yeah.” His voice faltered a little bit and I knew he was still scared. “I want to—I need to be better for you, Kenny. This time.”

It was a strange feeling, having this conversation, and I realized that as hard as I’d always fucking tried, I’d never really believed I’d get to have it. I answered, “Yep, me too Zimms, yeah. We will. We can—we aren’t kids anymore. We can do this. And we have Eric.”

He chuckled, feeling the same disbelief as me. “We do. He’s—really something, isn’t he?”

“Fuck, yeah. I—,” I stopped, changed suddenly, “We both love him, don’t we?”

Jack paused, then admitted, “So much.”

 _I love you, too_ , I thought, but I couldn’t say it. I wasn’t brave enough. He’d never said it before, when we were kids. I’d spew it out, every chance I could, probably so much he wasn’t even sure he believed me anymore, and he’d smile and say something nice back. But never that. So instead I snorted and commented, “He’s passive-aggressive as hell though.” I felt Jack chuckle and nod in agreement and I continued, “Christ, when he visited in Vegas, one day I forgot to tell him I had a charity thing after practice. I showed up three hours late and—fucking hell—he’d baked me a strawberry pie, Zimms.”

Jack stifled a loud laugh. “Did he not—,”

“No, he _super definitely_ knew I’m allergic. Like, zero percent chance he’d forgotten—of course he said he did, though—it was fucking on purpose, Zimms, so I couldn’t eat any.”

“That sounds like our Bitty.” He leaned down and I reached up to meet him in a kiss, soft and chaste, maybe loving. He sighed back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Goodnight, Zimms,” I whispered, brushing his hair away from his forehead.

“Goodnight, Kenny.”

 

~*~

 

Georgia was hot as fucking hell. Mrs. Bittle picked us up from the airport (all three of us had flown straight down from New York together) and I was already sweating by the time we made it over to her car. She seemed nice enough, if not a little fucking obsessed with Jack, but I knew meeting Eric’s dad would be worse. I slipped off my hat to fiddle with my cowlick. Eric tutted and fussed at my hair before tucking it neatly back under the snapback for me. Mrs. Bittle directed a question at him and he whipped back around, his hands flying away from my face like I’d burned him.

I was in the house less than five minutes before things got uncomfortable. I’d shaken hands with Mr. Bittle (who Bitty kept calling Coach, which was fucking weird, right?) and was slipping out of my shoes when Mrs. Bittle gave an uncomfortable little gasp. Coach frowned and asked, “What in the hell?”

I looked down expecting to see like, a giant cockroach or a tattoo I’d forgotten I’d had done, but there was nothing…oh, shit. I wiggled my toes involuntarily, staring at the three week-old nail polish. And okay, yeah, that was a little embarrassing, but it was cool. I could talk about it. “Oh, yeah, this? Well it’s not normally my thing but like, I took a teen hockey group I work with to a spa day—I try to do off-the-ice stuff, teach life balance and self-care and stuff—and I usually don’t do polish, but there was this kid, Sam, who looked like he _really_ wanted to but he was nervous right? So I figured, what the hell, I’ll do it too, make Sam feel more comfortable. So he got blue and I went with Samwell-red because Aces-black is a bit dramatic, so, uh…yeah? I totally forgot I still had it on.”

Bitty’s face was buried in his hands. Jack was hiding a smile. Coach, still frowning, only said, “Pedicures ain’t for men,” and walked into the living room. I had a feeling by the end of the day I’d end up with a massive fucking headache.

Even that didn’t prepare me for what being around Coach did to Eric. I watched helplessly as he shrank back into himself, careful not to sit too close on the couch, not to call me Kenny, not to look up at Jack too long or say “ _Hun, could you grab that rolling pin for me?”_ when we baked in the kitchen. Even though he’d call Chowder or Lardo “hun” too, say it to anyone up at Samwell. He wasn’t just acting like he wasn’t dating us; he wasn’t acting like himself. I wanted to throw up.

Jack pulled me aside before dinner, trembling and angry, confessing, “I hate this, Kenny.”

“Me too, Zimms.” I glanced around the corner to make sure no one was coming, then pressed my forehead against his shoulder. He grabbed my cap off my head to keep it from falling off. Pulling away, I tried to smirk more confidently than I felt. “This’ll be over tomorrow. We can tell them after the barbeque, like we planned, and—and maybe it won’t be so bad, yeah? Eric is scared, but—they love him. You can tell they love him, right?”

Jack turned his head to look at the family gathering at the dinner table. “I—yeah, I—yeah.”

We sat down on either side of Bitty at the table and had a pretty pleasant conversation, all things considered.

Until Mr. Bittle said, “I’m just so glad you’re not into that silly figure skatin’ stuff anymore, son. Hockey’s a real sport, respectable. Made you toughen up a bit, huh son?”

Eric’s head sagged and I made eye contact with Jack, who shook his head just the tiniest bit. He wouldn’t say anything; he was too polite, too nervous.

I wasn’t. “I actually think figure skating is awesome,” I began, and when Eric looked over at me in horror I instinctively put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. He flinched under the touch and froze, like a deer on the highway, “Like, you learn these incredible jumps and everything, it’s fucking crazy what you can do on the ice. And figure skaters are _fast_ and hell, I don’t really like to brag, but people say I’m the best player — only cause you’re not on the ice yet, Zimms — best in the NHL, and I’ve never checked anyone in my _life._ I didn’t win the Cup ‘cause I’m tough or rough guys up—I’m up against the boards all the time—I’m just—I bet Eric’s a better player from figure skating. I’d like to learn, actually, yeah. I think it’d be great.”

I stopped talking. My mouth felt dry and I realized it was _not fucking normal_ how long my hand had been on Eric’s shoulder; I let it fall to my side with a thump that got swallowed up by the deadly silent room. Jack was watching Bitty with concern, his mouth pressed into a thin line, hands balled up into fists under the table. I felt like I might suffocate, like the stares from across the table were crushing around my throat.

Mrs. Bittle turned pointedly away from me and asked, “So, Jack, how’s your father doing?”

Eric’s hand settled over my knee and squeezed. I looked over at him carefully and watched as, for just a second, a smile fluttered onto his face.

 

That night, I slipped out of the guest room I was sharing with Zimms to get a glass of water and, more importantly, confirm Eric’s parents were asleep so he could sneak into the room with us. I froze when I heard voices in the kitchen.

“I think they’re lovely boys, don’t you?” Mrs. Bittle pressed.

Coach sighed. “Jack is a good kid. His father must be mighty proud. But the other one, Kent, I—,” his voice dropped low and I had to creep closer towards the doorway to keep listening, “I worry about Junior spending time with a boy like _that_ , Suzanne.”

“Richard…”

“You saw how he—I think he’s—he’s a _homo_ , Suzanne, and you know how _delicate_ Junior is already, he doesn’t need that kind of influence, trying to turn him into some kind of _twink_ _—_ ,”

I couldn’t listen anymore. I stumbled back into the bedroom and curled wordlessly against Zimms, lifting my head just long enough to use my phone to warn Bitty not to come over yet, and then burying it into Jack’s chest.

“Kenny, what’s wrong?” Jack’s arms wrapped around me and I breathed in his cologne, cinnamon and apples and some other thing. I was too busy swallowing down the bile in my throat to answer. For the first time in fucking _years_ , I was almost ashamed of who I was. If I’d come back to an empty bed, to no Jack, to no soft cotton shirt and enveloping arms, maybe I would be ashamed. And normally I didn’t let slurs and ignorance like the shit I’d just listened to get to me. I was Kent fucking Parson, bisexual, and _fuck you if that’s a problem_. But I’d grown up with a single mother whose reaction to walking in on Jack and me fucking was to buy me a book about gay sex and a shit ton of lube. I’d grown up with a woman whose reaction to my polyamory was “I love you so much, Kent.”

And Eric had grown up with this. I pressed my face harder against Jack and choked out into his white tee shirt, “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

“You mean, not tell them?”

I nodded, taking in deep breaths when I realized Jack’s own breathing was speeding up. His chest rose and fell more regularly again and I whispered, “They don’t—he called me a ‘homo,’ Zimms—they don’t like me. They won’t—this could go to hell tomorrow and it’ll be because of me—because I wasn’t _good enough_ _—_ it’s gonna be so much harder because—,”

“ _Kenny_ , this isn’t your fault.” Jack tilted my chin up and his face fell when he realized there were tears in my eyes. “We all knew this could be—Bitty knows what it’ll be like. He’s ready. Neither of us are ashamed of you.”

I wasn’t sure I really believed him, but I murmured, “Thanks, Zimms,” and leaned in to kiss him. He responded, his lips spreading warmth back into me.

I was half on top of him, pressing my tongue into his mouth, when Bitty crept in and tutted, “You boys started without me?” His voice was playful, chirping, so unlike the rest of the day.

I rolled off Jack and held open my arms, sighing with relief when Eric crawled into them and kissed me. “Thought I said the coast wasn’t clear, Bits?”

“How’s it feel to have someone disobeyin’ _your_ instructions, Mr. Parson?” he teased. Jack chuckled and pressed his lips behind Bitty’s ear. “We can’t actually—they ain’t asleep and even if they were, they sleep lighter than feathers, Lord help me.” His accent had grown thicker since we’d gotten to Georgia. It was sexy, and Jack seemed to agree. He ignored the warning and sucked at Bitty’s neck, hopefully at least being careful enough to not leave any hickeys behind.

“We’ll be quiet, Bits,” I begged, batting my eyelashes, sliding my hand under the sleep shorts he’d worn to bed.

“Mr. Parson,” he gasped, squirming against the two pairs of hands currently crawling over his body, “You ain’t ever hushed up in your entire life.”

I chuckled and traced the line of his collarbone with my tongue. “To be fair, Bits, you’ve never wanted me to.”

“Lord help me.”

 

~*~

 

I woke up to Bitty re-entering our room (because if anyone asks, he _definitely_ didn’t sleep in there until six am) with a present behind his back. I muttered into Jack’s shoulder, “I’m officially the old man in this relationship. Am I responsible for us all now?”

“Christ forbid. I’m the still most responsible,” he argued, a sleepy smile on his face, “but happy birthday, Kenny.”

I snuggled up between the two men I loved, fielding ‘Happy Birthday’ texts as Vegas began to wake up, and opened my presents. Jack had gotten me a Falconers snapback, which I assured him was fucking _hilarious_ , but also one with cats all over it which was legitimately pretty cool. Bitty’s present was a set of ‘friendship bracelets’ for me and Kit, which he’d found online. It was actually a collar for Kit in a woven fabric over leather, and a matching bracelet for me. What a time to be alive.

“You’re both just _trying_ to get me chirped more, aren’t you?” I asked, but I was glowing with excitement, and clasped the bracelet on. It was navy blue with white and black patterning.

“I don’t think the team really needs help findin’ ways to chirp you, darlin’,” Bitty laughed.

“…but yes,” Jack added, fitting the Falconers cap onto my head. I smirked and flicked his leg.

 

We hid out in there for a while, until Bitty suggested, “Let’s tell them now, not tonight.”

Jack looked over at me with furrowed eyebrows, asking, “Are you sure, Bits? I thought—,”

“My bags are packed,” he interrupted, his voice steady—too steady—and jaw stiff, “I want to get it over with.”

And _fuck,_ did that destroy me. Eric had packed his life away into suitcases, fully prepared to leave this house to be who he was. To be with us. Jack and I went to pull him into a hug at the same time and clunked our heads together. I didn’t even laugh about it, just repositioned under his chin and sandwiched Bitty between us. I wanted to tell them it’d work out, that no one would have to leave. Instead, I whispered, “I love you,” into the room, because at least I knew that was true.

We found Mrs. Bittle in the kitchen and Coach in the backyard, messing with the grill. They both followed us into the living room, Mrs. Bittle sitting in the recliner chair and Coach resting casually against the side of it. Eric sank down into the couch with Jack and me joining on either side. We were all probably a little too close together, but neither of us had the heart to scoot farther away from him.

“Uh, Mom, Coach, I—I have something I wanted—I need to tell you—,” Eric stared down at his phone, where he’d typed up some notes. He’d used actual notecards with Shitty, apparently, “I just, I’ve always known this, but it’s been hard to—to say it, to you, and, um—,” his hand flew over mine; I flipped my palm to lace our fingers together and squeeze, “I’m gay. Kenny—Kenny is my boyfriend.” He looked up at them with swimming eyes, first at Mrs. Bittle, who managed to actually smile back, and then at Coach, who looked like he was trying to figure out how to say something.

“No,” he said, and my grip tightened around Eric’s hand, “this ain’t _right_ , son.”

“Richard, don’t—,”

“Suzanne, don’t try to defend this—this _sin_ happening in our house. I didn’t raise — look, Junior, you’ve always been a little _soft_ , different, but—I knew we shouldn’t’ve let you go up north with all those Yankees—you’re gettin’ all confused up there, lettin’ them make you—,”

“Richard _stop_ , why don’t you take a walk, cool—,”

“ _Suzanne_ _—_ this isn’t — I told you this one,” he pointed at me and Eric pressed against me defensively, “was bad news, Suzanne. Who the hell flies a college kid — _our son_ _—_ to Vegas, puts him up in some condo — he’s _corruptin’_ our boy is what he’s—,”

Jack stood up. His fists were clenched so tight they sent tremors up his arms, and for a second I thought he was halfway to another panic attack. But no, Jack was just fucking _angry_. His body shifted so Eric and I were partially hidden behind him. I’m sure he was about to say something, but Mrs. Bittle beat him to it.

“Richard,” she commanded, her voice firm, “Take. A. Walk.”

The front door slammed shut so fucking hard the pictures clattered up against the walls they hung from. Jack collapsed back against the couch, one hand against his face and the other resting on the small of Eric’s back. I pressed my face against the top of Eric’s head, squeezing my eyes shut, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Dicky, I—,” Mrs. Bittle started, hesitating before she walked over to wrap her arms around Eric’s neck, “I will _always_ love you, sweetheart, always.”

“Mama…”

“Your father, he—he’d always wanted—I’m sorry he couldn’t be who you needed, Dicky. I’m so sorry.”

Eric almost laughed, I think, but it was choking and bitter. “Me too. But I have—Mom, I have _you_ , and Kenny, and Jack, and—you’ve always been my best friend. Thank you.”

It was fucked up, watching two-thirds of a family trying to pretend they were okay. It was all the best they could do, I guess, to focus on this, ignore the part they couldn’t fix. Mrs. Bittle shook her head, “I should have done more, honey, to help you.”

“Well,” Bitty admitted dryly, “the grandchildren comments have been a bit much.”

She laughed quietly, “Oh, I still want grandchildren.”

I offered weakly, “I have a cat.”

Mrs. Bittle looked over and smiled at me. She touched my shoulder and said, very seriously, “That’s a good start.”

Jack chuckled fondly, pulled my hat down over my head, “Always about the cat with you, isn’t it Kenny?”

Maybe it was just his voice, or maybe it was the “Kenny,” but Mrs. Bittle glanced at Jack like she’d finally understood something. She rose from her crouching hug with Eric and sat on the armrest on my side of the couch, the start of my _“Kit Purrson is literally a princess”_ rant going ignored. She opened her mouth like she might say something to him, but shook her head instead. “Sorry, Kent, sweetheart, you said something about your cat?”

 

~*~

 

We didn’t go to the barbeque. We borrowed Mrs. Bittle’s truck and drove until we weren’t in Madison anymore, wandering some equally small but anonymous town together, pretending today was only my birthday. When the sun started to set, we drove back towards the house but stopped short, parked out in a field Eric knew overlooked the fireworks show. We lay blankets out in the bed of the truck and curled up together, Jack photographing the show and muttering about composition and lenses to himself.

“Can I fly back to Vegas with you?” Eric whispered, his head resting in my lap.

I stroked his arm, fingers brushing up and down against thin blond hairs and soft skin. “Yeah, Bits, of course.”

“I—I think he’ll come around and maybe—I might go back home eventually, just—I can’t be around him yet, after what he said…”

Jack commented, “I wouldn’t want you to.” I nodded in agreement. He set his camera down and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You should come visit in Providence too though, eh? Can’t let Kenny keep you all to himself.”

“Hey, you’ll see him way more than me when college starts up,” I argued, smirking into our kiss. I tried not to think about how little I’d see _Jack_. Because sure, I’d drive down to Samwell whenever the roadies brought us close enough, and Bitty could make a game or two, but Jack would always have roadies of his own, other games to play. The Aces played the Falconers twice during the regular season. It was that, and holidays.

“…I’ll miss you both,” Jack admitted quietly.

Bitty sat up and placed a hand on each of our knees, scolding, “Don’t either of you start that talk on me. We ain’t barely _half-way_ through this damn summer, and we’re spendin’ most of it together.”

I laughed at the same time Jack said, “Sorry Bits, love you— _oh_.” He turned stiff for a second as we both turned to look at him.

I snapped him out of it by smirking and ruffling his hair, so that he was smiling when Bitty beamed and answered, “I love you too, Jack.”

 

After that, it only took about two hours and one _incredible_ blowjob (courtesy of yours truly) to convince Jack to fly out to Vegas with us instead of doing whatever responsible thing he had lined up in Providence.

 

~*~

 

On August 1st, we joined Jack as he re-moved into the apartment in Providence he hadn’t seen in over a month.

“I don’t understand why she still doesn’t _like_ me,” Jack complained, unpacking his toiletry bag.

“I slept on the floor for _three days_ to win Kit’s trust, Zimms, _three days_ , and you wouldn’t do it one night. You haven’t _earned_ her love.”

“Bittle didn’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Bitty smacked our boyfriend’s incredible Zimmermann ass on his way back to the kitchen. “That’s because all of the Lord’s creatures love me instantly. It’s a gift.”

“Seriously. It was like, a little fucking offensive how easy she took to him.”

“Oh _shoo_ ! Didn’t your daddy teach you any manners?” Bitty’s voice echoed from across the apartment, “Kent Parson, your cat just ruined a perfectly good pie crust!” I was staying with Jack until the pre-season started again, and Kit was along for the ride because _oddly enough_ no one wanted to watch her for three weeks and I really didn’t want to kennel her more than I had to.

Jack snickered. I shoved him playfully before bounding down the hall. “I’d have to have my own manners to teach any to her,” I pointed out, wrapping my arms around Bitty from behind and pulling him against me. He doused me in flour and tried to shoo me out of the kitchen.

“Kent Parson, do not distract me! We only have two hours before Jack’s parents get here and I have _so_ much to do.” Jack thumped down the hall.

I smirked and massaged Eric’s shoulders. “See, Bits, what you don’t realize is that I’ve set the Zimmermanns’ bar _incredibly_ fucking low for Jack’s boyfriends. I mean—,”

“My parents loved you,” Jack protested, resting a hand on the small of my back and leaning in to give Bitty a kiss.

“That’s pretty fucking debatable,” I answered dryly, dodging the cloud of flour aimed at Jack, his punishment for trying to tickle Bitty’s sides.

“If you boys don’t get out of my kitchen and let me work, so help me sweet Lord in Heaven, I’ll—,”

We bolted, Jack snickering and pulling me by the hand. A trail of flour followed us from the kitchen to the couch we leapt onto, startling Kit with our childish laughter.

 

~*~

 

Dinner went better than I’d expected. I could feel the jealousy simmering in Jack when Bob asked too many questions about Vegas, what it was like being captain, how it’d felt to win the Cup. After everything, Jack’s father still hadn’t really learned to be sensitive to that kind of thing, I guess. But Jack kept his hand on my knee under the table through every time I thought he’d pull away.

I headed down the hall that night, not really ready to sleep and craving another slice of pie. I _swear_ I wasn’t expecting Jack to be talking to his dad in the living room. Like, I don’t make a habit of fucking looking for ways to eavesdrop on my boyfriends’ parents, alright? Except they were clearly talking about me and I’m not exactly above passing up that opportunity, either.

I’d never _super_ nailed down French, and it’d been years since I’d really needed it, but I could make out parts of the conversation. Bob was asking, “ <…Kent…with your anxiety…good idea?>”

“<Papa, yes, it’s not the same. We…and it’s better. _I’m_ better. >”

“<I don’t want you to be hurt.>”

“<…I won’t be.>”

I made a show of thumping the rest of the way down the hall so they’d hear me, and poked my head around the doorway. Jack smiled at me warmly, greeting, “Oh, hey Kenny.”

“Hey, guys. I, uh, figured I’d cheat on my diet plan while I still can,” I smirked, tilting my head in the direction of the kitchen.

“I’m in,” Bob laughed, clasping my shoulder as he steered us towards the half-eaten pie on the counter. “And Kent? It’s good to see you again.”

 

~*~

 

The Haus threw us a kegster when we told them. Jack opted out of the announcement, which I honestly felt a little fucking weird about, because we were just _missing_ part of the whole thing. But I knew better than to even think about pushing him into it, so I focused on my arm around Bitty and the game of beer pong we were about to lose _very_ badly.

Chowder went to crash at his girlfriend’s for the night so Jack could have his old room back. Once the party died down, he crept out onto the roof and into Bitty’s room through the window. We crowded into a bed that was _barely_ made for two fucking people, let alone three hockey players, laughing as we clunked elbows and knees getting settled.

An easy silence fell over us, until Jack broke it by whispering, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it.”

“Oh, honey…” Bitty answered softly.

“Hey, it’s alright, Zimms. It’s—it’s a lot, and if you don’t wanna be out yet—,” I faltered and changed directions, smirking and ruffling his hair, “Hey, look at it this way. Now we’ll get _two_ kegsters out of it whenever we do tell ‘em.”

Jack almost chuckled as he tilted his head to lean against me. “Thanks, Kenny.”

 

~*~

 

Months passed before we settled on the right way to do it. We’d figured out that the last game the Aces needed to win to make the playoffs was a roadie against Boston, which meant Eric could be in the stands. The morning before the game, I pressed a kiss into his collarbone and answered the call I’d scheduled with PR.

“Parson, what did you do this time?” Bart asked. The entire PR team was on speakerphone.

“Nothing yet. But, uh, heads up, I’m coming out after the game tomorrow,” I warned them lazily, playing with Bitty’s hemline.

“You’re _gay_?”

I scrunched up my nose. “Uh, yeah. Bi, if you wanna get technical. Didn’t I tell you guys that? Like a while ago? You guys haven’t been, like, preparing for this?”

“Something like three years ago you sent us a group text at three AM that said ‘I’m gay bitches’ and when we called you the next morning to talk about it, you said ‘lol’ and hung up the phone.”

“Okay, yeah, I can see how that _may_ have not been taken seriously.” Bits rolled his eyes at me, tracing lazy circles across my abs with two perfect fucking fingers.

Bart sounded panicky when he begged, “Parson, we really need more time to prepare for this. Could you hold off on this announcement?”

“Yeah, I see your whole ‘this is a PR nightmare’ thing and raise you: I wanna make out with my boyfriend when we make it into the playoffs.”

Someone else cut in, “You have a _boyfriend?!_ ”

“Yup, super do, yeah. He’s super great Cindy, the media’ll love him—hey, he’s here in the hotel room, wanna talk to him?” Eric was waving his hands at me in protest; I blew him a kiss.

“He’s in the _hotel room_?”

“Yeah, uh huh,” I checked my watch, which was actually the only piece of clothing I had on, “Shit, I’m gonna be late for practice. Talk to Bits, guys, he’s great.”

“ _Bits?_ Parson is he a strip—,”

I tossed the phone to my better-third, who glared at me but instantly switched into full Southern Charm mode. “Hey y’all…yes sirs and ma’am…no, it’s a nickname thank the Lord…Eric Bittle…I know and I’m _very_ sorry about all this...” I scrambled out of bed and dug around in my suitcase for underwear. “Tell you what, what’re y’all’s favorite kinds of pies?” He took out his own phone and typed up a list. “Mhm, yes I promise I’ll give him a _stern_ talkin’ to — ,” he reached over and spanked my ass as if to make his point, “yes, I’ll sit with y’all at the game and we can talk…Samwell University…yes, I know Jack…” I was half dressed by now, brushing my teeth furiously while unfolding a shirt. “Well I would say we are all _great_ friends, the three of us.” Bits wiggled his eyebrows at me and I winked back.

I was ready to head to the rink, so I leaned over to kiss his cheek and pantomimed, “Text Jack for me.” He nodded and shooed me away, still chatting up the PR team and winning them over with basically zero effort. I fucking loved him.

 

~*~

 

We took Boston to overtime and clinched it 2-1. My hand rested lightly on Bitty’s waist when we headed out to the press conference, the team whispering chirps behind us excitedly. It took a couple warm-up questions before a reporter finally worked up the courage to ask, “Mr. Parson, who’s this up on the podium with you?”

“What? This is Swoops, he’s literally been on first line with me all year, guys, keep it together—,” and at this point, at least three people elbowed me, “Ow—sorry, sorry, just kidding. This is Eric Bittle, who’s here because he’s really just been an incredible support for me and…he’s my boyfriend.”

The general background murmur that always washed over press conferences faded away into an awkward silence. The same reporter fumbled, “You mean…uh… _romantically_ , or…?”

“Yes, I mean—c’mon guys, really? Like, I’ll spell it out for you,” I snorted and pulled Bitty into a kiss. He squeaked in protest but relaxed into it as the room exploded into camera flashes and ignored questions.

 

~*~

 

“They picked the one with my tongue down your throat. Should we frame it, Bits?” I waved my copy of the magazine in front of the webcam. Bitty and Jack were both back on the east coast, curled up on Jack’s couch.

“You hush. Have you talked to Bart, yet?”

I smirked, “I’m pretty sure it’s Bart’s goal to never have to talk to me again, actually.”

“I sympathize,” Jack chirped, dodging the pillow Bitty hurled at him. “But seriously, how’s the press been?”

I shrugged. “Mostly weird. A reporter asked me what made me realize I was bisexual. Which like, I just made up some bullshit for because I’m pretty sure if any one thing did it for me, it was your fucking teenage masterpiece of an ass, Zimms.”

“Why do you guys always say stuff like that? My butt isn’t even that great.”

Deadpan, I told him, “I almost cried the first time I touched it.”

“Same.” Bitty fell out of frame, suddenly wrestling with Jack in a fit of giggles.

 

~*~

 

The playoffs were a blur of ice and pucks and late night Skype calls that really shouldn’t have taken precedence over sleep but did. Have you ever been proud and terrified of something at the same fucking time? Because that’s what it felt like to be hurtling towards the Stanley Cup finals while the Falconers did the same thing on the other side of the bracket.

I was back to being scared for Jack Zimmermann. He had dark circles living under his eyes and all his conversations were snappier, even towards Eric. And okay, yeah, it was still nowhere near as bad as it was before the Draft, but that’s really a small fucking victory considering how that one ended. One night, after Jack had _supposedly_ turned in early but was probably re-watching tape again, Eric broke down about it.

“He’s putting himself under so much pressure—and he’s not really taking it _out_ on us, but I — I just don’t know what to _do_ about it, Kenny,” he sobbed.

“Me neither, Bits. I—I never have. But this is—,” I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if it would actually make him feel better to know, “this is the best I’ve ever seen him, this time of year. Zimms is in a way better place than he used to be, even if this…isn’t his best.”

He’d calmed down a little, but still sniffled into Señor Bun before he could ask, “What’re you gonna do if it’s both of you in the finals?”

I was going to fucking pray, mostly, and other than that I didn’t have a clue.

 

~*~

 

I got used to talking to God. We fought the Falconers through six excruciating games to land in the seventh. The family section was lined with Samwell college students wearing combination Parson/Zimmerman jerseys Lardo had sewn together herself. I think most of them were really just cheering for Jack, but it was a nice gesture.

The game was trickling towards overtime. I swiped the puck from a d-man and ran it up towards the net, skating fast and low. There were Falconers behind me, fighting to race up against me. Jack checked me up against the boards. I felt the familiar shudders of wood and glass, vibrating into my skin, watched the direction the puck flew. I lived an entire life in that moment, crushed between Jack and the side of a hockey rink, felt as he instantly breathed in rhythm with me, like there was no other way to get air. I thought about how he’d nearly died, once.

I could reach the puck before him. I could reach the puck and Swoops would be open in less than a second, within range of the net. I knew it. I watched it happen. But I could fall back against the check instead. It’d be easy; I’d just be second. I thought about how I was supposed to be fucking second, always, and how I could break Jack by being first. _Ten pills and an ambulance and ‘Can you help me, Kenny?’_ I thought about everything I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to hold onto, everything I wasn’t sure we could handle, even after all this time.

 

I skated through the check and shot the puck to Swoops. He slammed it into the net.

 

The score was still 3-2 when the timer ran out. The cheering thrummed against my ears like it came from some other place, over a telephone maybe. Our half of the ice was a giant celly; the guys bounced me around like a pinball, launching me into hugs and shouts of “ _Good fucking game!_ ” I was mid laughter when suddenly the d-men peeled away from me. Jack was skating over.

I couldn’t get a read on his expression and neither could the crowd, where the volume of cheers dropped considerably. Before I could figure out what I could possibly fucking say in this situation, Zimms crushed me in an embrace. The stands roared back to life. I barked out a surprised laugh and buried myself in his chest. He whispered, “I’m so proud of you, Kenny. So fucking proud. You deserve this.”

I wasn’t supposed to say it. I’d made myself promise that I wouldn’t, that I’d wait for him to be ready. I couldn’t say it first, not again, after all this fucking time. Except I did. I choked back my tears and told him, “I love you, Zimms.”

There were things you couldn’t change about yourself.

I felt the words bubble out of his chest. “I love you too, Kenny.”

And there were things you could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love PB&J (and Kent Parson in particular) so much! Come chat with me about them [on Tumblr <3](http://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)


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